sometimesthe rocks speakto my bones likelong lost friendsand i wonder whati missed while my eyeswere clamped shut.
Cracked Shellsi.All the king’s horses and men graduatedfrom medical school with high honors(the valedictorian gave a speechabout a man that fell from a wall).You cheered for them,turning to me and remarkingthat science was a gift,medicine a miracle,and God a savior.I smiled and clapped with you.ii.I wish to speak with the king.The horses shy awaywhen I walk past themdown these formaldehyde halls;nobody taught the menhow to deal with grief.What is it with walls and headsWhy do they collide, whom do I blameWhen will this be over, where did you go?iii.I stole a horse from the hospitaland told him to take me into the sun,let the fire burn me through.I am ungrateful, unworthy of the manwho relearned how to walk and speakand tell me that he loves me with all his heart.Fuck science, fuck medicine, Fuck GodIt’s been a year and I wonder if Humpty Dumpty was better off.
GoldI don't want a heart of goldscraped from rock and stained in blood.
'just' friendsi am sickof the romantic relationsbetween everything--the rain can be platonicand the birdsong benevolent.i do not needto be in lovewith the world.
the twentieth winter (colorblind)December.the snow hardens to icequiet thoughts pressed into white;the stars grow brighteras water is siphoned from the atmospherewoven into the blanketed ground.January.the sun has stoppedtrying to press through the cloudswhite light from a gray sky,black ice beneath my feet--i am tired of watching where i step.February.they wrote me another prescriptiontrying to stop me from dissolvinginto the road-salted floor.white pills to white teeth,white tiles to white noise.March.the crows are darker in the sun;white snow to gray waterlicking the salt from the sidewalks,stars growing rosy with the heat--only the bay knows better than to thaw.
wingbeatsi love youthe way i love birds--flying across October skieson to better places.
butterfly breastI’ve been told thatlove is a rollercoaster,that I am luckyto be the type that criesabout dead pets and rising suns(but it makes my heart sick and lungs sore:grief like twisted driftwood and joy like soaring gulls,my seas are too shallow to harbor such ambivalence).
+my mother always told meto make good choicesand although she tried to teach mei never learned the differencebetween good choices and easy onesand i think that’s why i’m still here,because most days it’s harder to think aboutwhat my mother would say at my funeralthan it is to keep breathing
leaving me bethere are cobwebshanging in my headbut i can't bring myselfto take them down becausesomeone thought my mindwas good enough a placeto build a home.
At Least We're Happy In a Different DimensionIn an alternate universewe are having the conversationI wish had started long ago.
.the rabbits twitchin their sleep;they dreamof red bitten neckswet with spit,the birds dream of their eggscrackedand runny -the mice dream of hearingthat tabby cat screamas the teeth of life ripitwide open
making boys cryyou never know what’s folded in pocketsor nestled between teeth;we are wolves in wool and sometimesit’s better to watch from a distance.
.my mind said he wasgoing out to get somesanity, don't think he'scoming back becausehis things are goneand now i'm up to myneck in words that havesnapped cos i twistedthem all too far(it gets me down so much that it keeps me up at night)
.the seaboiled itselfclean andholy again,bones washedup on theshore,smooth asdriftwoodi lay inthe ribsof a whalea while,carve myname in thewhitewith sharpflint(in the corners of sand, dug my feet in)
.think i'm madas a hatter,just becausei want to sit anddrink tea with the deadfor a whileon a sunday afternoon?just cos i like totrace the patterns inthe woodwork onthe table with my fingerswhen we're talking,yes,something has beenhere before,and it's us,with words so wellused that they're nowdamaged andwe can't even tell whatthey mean anymore(still cramming them into the distance though)
.half my life sitsin this waiting room,dust on the spikeplant so thick that itfeels like grey velvet,i prod my fingersonto the sharp tips,as i sitwith a two week cleanjunkie who saysthis is terrible(i sign in, but i never sign out)
.slicing openthe tips of my fingers,four in one strokethen the thumba little flesh hatfor the spirit in each(love is dead, lilith)
.i threwa sack overthe head ofyour dream,i marchedit out backto die(i want your mother to know that her hell is in my head and hips)
.not nowi am too afraidof dreaming,if i do -the tidewill recoil atmy touchand then say, come,come sleep under me,look,the sky is throwingdown its nighttime sheets, let's gograb that loosegold thread and pull,let's watchthe stars unravel -i might have kissedthose feetof freyas soft and gentle,but you know if you waderight in i'mrough and heartless,the planets willalign, and then,three ghosts, one of themmy father, and there ain'tnothing holy'bout him,a starving dogwill run - there willbe red on white and i willlaugh, and i will standat the topof writers blockand i willthrow myself off(sleep please take me back i'm sorry about before)
.tonight across the street i sawthe devil sneak into god's garden;he took trowel in hand, planted seedsin the earth, grinned real wide andshut the white gate behind him(gonna come up smelling of roses)
.watching the skychurn itself thickerand thickerthe birds tireand drown asit sets aroundthem(no fight, and no flight either)
.sometimes the cold holds my hands so tightthey start to burn, turn red and raw, i know it hassomething to say but has no voiceso i must feel the chill instead, it knowsno other way, i knowno other wayto saythat i am thinking of the sun(the tide comes in and licks her sandy lips, drinks in the moon and i am gone)
.i noticeyou bite the skin ofyour lip, toowhen you're nervousor have nothing tosay -writing is startingto feel a bitlike a disease -just like your brotherdoesyou know you'reexactly the sameas him -one that all thewords in the worldwon't ever cure -i'll just have toget to know youthat way, i guessno don't walkaway -i want the foxto hunt the hound,the badger to cullthe human(let's take a walk down memory lane, let's see if i can finally ditch you)
.hope you'redead in a ditch,cold hard hands growing weeds,hope you drop your heart with yourkeys and you can't get back into me, to the two marks you madebefore that one,hope someone smashes youopen pig and the air will refuseto lift up your lungs anymore,scurry away from your lips in the rain again,hope you're still trying to fix yourselfwith vodka and bare hands,hope you learn that if you take someoneapart and expect them to put themselves backtogether, they're going to have a few loosescrews at the end of it all,and jesus christ i rip the grass up bythe roots at 3am because i'm cruel nowand not because there's anything wrongwith my grapefruit(i know and know and know, only one i belong to is death)
.there are a million different worldsthat have been built on top of this one, and i know this cause they whisper throughthe cracks of doors in secretto each other -i heard you're never more than six feetfrom a rat, eight from a spider andseventy from the sea, please, don't letyourself drift any further out from me(holy ghost, are you flammable?)
.between the cloudsshe says your eyes are meltingblack down your cheeks again,would you just comehere and stop bucking with fear,did you forgetthe only thing growing inside meis panic -enough for me to keepveins as vipers, blood asvenom and love as a deadstiff rat(some only see the light when they're on fire)
.i neverlearned thelanguageof flowers,never knewwhy thenettlespat itswords at mewith venom,why thosegreenforkedtonguesleft asting(i bet the sheep don't lose a wink over the starving wolves, either)
SometimesFly on fast wings and smilebecause sometimes,just sometimes,you are quickerthan the sadness chasing you.