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SometimesFly on fast wings and smile
you are quicker
than the sadness chasing you.
ode to the readerperhaps
if i practice enough,
i might find a way to capture
the little good moments:
a cup of tea
a good book
a full moon
to carry more
'just' friendsi am sick
of the romantic relations
the rain can be platonic
and the birdsong benevolent.
i do not need
to be in love
with the world.
Two birds, One ThroneI saw two baby birds
misplaced by overconfidence
in the leaves, beaks opening expectantly
as my shadow eclipsed them.
I searched for a nest
but the trees were empty wombs;
fallen fruit fermenting in the grass
with the bones of those
who had not lived to see the snow.
A transformation ensued:
I became an uncertain god,
sitting upon an icy throne of indecision.
Mother Nature was fertile and unfortunate,
and I was unsure of what type of mercy to give.
A mother bird appeared
and I abdicated the throne.
From her beak spilled the remains
of someone else’s children
into the frantic mouths of her own.
The next day I returned,
my feet amongst bones and fruit.
The little birds had vanished,
their mother sitting in a branch nearby,
singing quietly to herself.
I do not know what it means, or if it matters at all.
I do not know if divinity is acceptance or action;
my ambiguity is a feathered creature afraid to spread its wings.
Perhaps another uncertain god is looking down on me.
A Loose PromiseWhen my bones kiss the dirt
and the birds pluck my eyes
I hope a wolf eats my heart
so I am human no more.
When my breath leaves my chest
and my lungs fill with moss
I want a tree where I lay
so I am creature no more.
But since I still have my heart
and my bones, eyes and breath
I will beat, breathe and see
so I can try to be more.
All the king’s horses and men graduated
from medical school with high honors
(the valedictorian gave a speech
about a man that fell from a wall).
You cheered for them,
turning to me and remarking
that science was a gift,
medicine a miracle,
and God a savior.
I smiled and clapped with you.
I wish to speak with the king.
The horses shy away
when I walk past them
down these formaldehyde halls;
nobody taught the men
how to deal with grief.
What is it with walls and heads
Why do they collide, whom do I blame
When will this be over, where did you go?
I stole a horse from the hospital
and told him to take me into the sun,
let the fire burn me through.
I am ungrateful, unworthy of the man
who relearned how to walk and speak
and tell me that he loves me with all his heart.
Fuck science, fuck medicine, Fuck God
It’s been a year and
I wonder if Humpty Dumpty was better off.
unanswered phone callsmaybe if we enjoyed the lullaby of empty
dial tones, we would fall asleep somewhere
amidst the clatter of unanswered phone calls.
there is a melancholy to be found in silence.
nothing but the static between our muted voices,
only the sterile hum of knowing you are
watching TV or driving or laughing or fishing
or out with friends or asleep somewhere.
love is not a limb; if it's lost, it will always grow back.
i am discarded bandages and surgical knives.
you are an amputated arm; your phantom limb
haunts me whenever i doubt your ghost.
i learned a trick to uncovering the scent of a hospital without
actually going to one. pick a beach on Lake Michigan and swim
to the point on the horizon where the clouds become water.
you will find me there and immediately recognize the smell
of emergency. do not be alarmed; love is no urgent matter.
again, we will hug a hospital bed with no way to pay the bills.
the best way to dance is to a soundless song.
remember: the silence. when i’m re
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
a time to rise, and a time to fallI have never asked her what it is that she misses so much. Whatever it is, it turns her eyes blue mid-winter and chases the heat from her cheeks. The truth is, I never thought it was my place to ask: after all, I'm nothing but a stranger in her quiet heart. And even now, years after we first met, I do not ask her.
She stretches one morning, all smooth edges and warm spaces. She looks at me as she always does before she tumbles out of bed, and her eyes are blue. Again. The weeks melt away and I am staring at six years worth of winters, all rolled into one. It chills me and my teeth chatter. She doesn't say anything but I know that she has caught me looking, has inhaled my shiver and tasted old winters in it instead of fresh laid snow. There is no fooling her, there has never been any chance of that: she always knows.
I give up all hope of further sleep and step out of bed and onto rich, plush carpet. It is a violent hue, bu
Elephants, coffeepots and second chancesI remember that conversation we had
about the meaning of eternity
how long can it last
one single blade
Even your smile
shining at me from a picture
looks different everyday
I remember the clouds
how you saw an elephant,
how we laughed
because to me it was clearly
But in the end
even the addicted pachyderm
like our laughs
like our promises,
everything lasted enough for a memory
enough for us.
I don't know
how can I ask you
a single day now
if an elephant
stands between us
if last time we talked
you weren't there.
Among withered grass,
water, pachyderms and coffeepots
I think it's clear,
what eternity really means.
strung on highYou left me out to dry
My corpse rots in the
Middle of the street
And here I cry,
strung on high
(where are you?)
Trails of metallic tears
Left in my wake
Nothing left to take
And here I cry,
strung on high
(my name is ignorance,
it's nice to meet you)
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds like
clenching your jaw
until a crack shoots down
into the nerve endings.
The crunch of bone
splitting and separating
and shearing pain
up into the naive skull,
that hoped for something else
to penetrate the malaise
created by fooling yourself
with love, with money,
It sounds like biting your tongue -
and that flab of meat
chunking onto the carpet
and violating your chin
with its copperstench syrup,
that stains everybody
the same flavour of red -
This is what 2.37 am tastes like.
Like the only warmth is from
that cyaniatic bouillabaisse
created by swallowing yourself:
your blood, and teeth,
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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