Wednesday, May 18, 2011

You said you loved
the night sky best, and traced
constellations in my palms
from memory,

so I swallowed the sun
to keep the night alive
for weeks at a time,
until my stomach burned
from solar reflux

and the moon only shone
as embers in your eyes
when I opened my mouth
enough to make you laugh.

We lied together in the grass forever
speaking only in campfire songs

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Teeming Shores

When the pipe burst,
part of me hoped oil would fill
every inch of ocean,

until black pooled all around us,
making opposite coasts
open lips on either side of hemispheres,
unhinged and ready
to swallow us whole,

the tired and poor, the loveless
and loved least,
cowering together
in a single huddled mass,
and God blessed,
empty handed
and heart filled
only by the company
we keep.

Winter Solstice

I rolled the moon
between my fingers,
below freezing
and thick layers,
with one arm above
my head,

my mouth a chimney,
my chest full of small fires
slowly burning towards
the heavens.

I watched the quiet
silence of night
tangle in the trees
and rest at my feet
in blankets of empty sky,

as the moon ripened,
a single cherry
in a bottomless blue bowl.

I heard the nothing in everything.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

I spent days between nights with you,
standing before my bedroom closet,
sifting through my wardrobe,
pushing past the soft shoulders
of shirts with buttons,
untangling their empty arms,
and pulling their wrinkled collars
tight with white pressed thumbs,
hoping to hide my thin arms
and blanket my absent abs
in soft cloth,
appropriate for whatever purpose
it may later serve,
a pillow for your head
or shallow wall to lean upon
as we wait for the theater to empty,
I think of the man I may
be, covered in each,
never restless, and ever conscious
of the contrast between plaid
and fleeting nights.

Saturday, December 18, 2010


I hate the parties you attend
and the people you’re there with
that I don’t know, never will know,
and don’t care to ever know.

I even hate those there with you I already know.

I hate the songs you sing
that I put on mixtapes for you
about falling in love, finding love,
and being in love.

I especially hate the ones about heartbreak and moving on.

I hate the movies you quote
that I bought us tickets for,
the ones that made you laugh,
cry, and smile.

I also hate the ones that made you scared.

I hate the coat you wore
in the grocery store parking lot
when we talked, stared,
and kissed.

I still hate the way my chest beat with my arms around you.

I hate the thought of you dancing,
walking, sitting, standing,
moving, breathing, being,
seeing, and happy.

And I hate thinking I might still love everything
and all of it.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Late June

The park was sweltering,
sliding beads of sweat
across my brow and below
the bridge of my nose.

I wiped each clean
with the back of my hand
when you weren’t looking,
and watched you brush
the sun dried tips of your hair
gently behind your ear.

We wandered into the zoo
and stopped at a bench
before the elephants,
watching them pace
in their cut stone skin,
as you quietly sang
your favorite Smiths’ song

Once the sun rose higher
We entered outbuildings
housing hippo tanks and
man-made jungles crawling
with small rodents and rabbits.

I promised I’d find each
for you to fill a menagerie
small enough to fit beneath
your bed and you smiled,
falling into my arms,
against my chest.

After two years and colder
weather, I read news reports
about Tucker, the hippo, now
moving to San Francisco.

I thought of summer
and your red cheeks,
hoping someone’s built
small cages next to
your night stand.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


The thought of you without me,
left me bedridden,
Turning in sheets
Until my elbows
Were polished marble,
And my fingers dulled
Like month old bargain brand
I tossed ‘til I was nothing
But fists
With no chance of holding
Or anyone.

I couldn’t pick the lavender lilies that grew
Three steps from the porch
Or twirl strands of soft blond hair
Between my index and thumb

But I could punch walls
Like heavyweights
And leave black holes in their place
Until everything of color
Was swallowed into nothing.

I was Holyfield
In thin skinned gloves
Of flesh,
With two chips the weight of the world
On each shoulder.
I was Atlas strained,
Self obsessed and draped in doubt
Of fate and four letter words
That only leave my mouth in mumbles,
Tangled in my tongue,
Because I’ve heard them, but I don’t own them.

But a morning will come,
When my sheets will be so white they
From the sunlight that finds its
Way through every crack in the blinds,
And I’ll feel love in every inch of my skin,
Until atoms collect in my hands and birth planets.
Two that turn and waltz together
And gravitate towards no other,
Making us all a witness
To the new universe they’ve built,

One we struggle to explain,
But know when we feel it
Fill every corner of our chests,
Building heavens above it
In our heads.

Until all we can see is light.

I’m poised to burst.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

new shoes (autumn)

I stepped over sidewalk cracks
And kicked lost leaves
Caught in the path of my tightly pinched

Breaking their soft spines
As they collected into puddles
Of wine
At my heels.

I began to feel each arch
In my feet bend
As the air grew colder.