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The TransferIn recovery after the transfer, surgeons assured me I was alone.  Six hours later, the anesthesia is wearing off...and there's something slithering beneath my new skin. the observant curator will notice...the observant curator will notice...
fertilizer falls
softly, mocking the rain, and
horses shuffle, shy
of what could kill
or sustain them
fertilizer rests
slowly dissolving, diffusing
into the earth
reminiscent
of how people curate
their lawns instead
of their families her's was gray just like her skinwhen i was nine, she folded two origami cranes
out of gum wrappers she plucked from the sidewalk
cracks. she placed one in my palm and curled
my fingers around it; told me
one day they're gonna come to life and help us
fly away.
:thumb490818161: An Exercise in Romantic Optimismi.
I want a man with a pen behind his ear,
the kind who carries books of poetry to parties.
Could I see him over my drink, only slightly tipsy,
as he misses the girl in the punch bowl for the last stanza,
the last sigh? I’d want to ask him about paint splatter.
 
ii.
I’m addicted.
Inhale—lightning—
your chest.
Distance smells like ozone.
I wish I could figure
the sum of charcoal
you’ve scratched into your collarbones.
Or just—taste—
phases1.
facets of the heart, and one is burst,
I cannot stem the tide longer
of its plasma seepage,
or repel my darkest messenger
never to claim it as my own-
nothing about this is mine alone
as someone sinks into oblivion
while I think of them doing it
jumping the gun, racing the bullet
to quickly turn and take it
into their mouth, to chase the storm
that makes beggars of us,
burning retrograde of the moon,
slow grind of repressed memories
of an incomplete life
from the past coming full circle
2.
in the pillaged remains
within the fault line,
my own slip between moments
entirely of dust and light-
I want to recite you poems
never conceived of,
and to listen, enraptured
when you sing me your last
3.
my wishes are of no import,
the journey begins when it ends
seamlessly,
leaving no time to linger
and nothing more to mend:thumb490788967:
:thumb490644897::thumb490857808: Rest in PiecesI am inadequate in the way
that our hands don’t fit together
as well as they used to.
But will you still keep me warm,
even after I’m gone?
:thumb490637092: The Wither-manThey warned me about
the wither-man.
He carries himself
like a broken skein,
unraveling.
With a
hush-step
shambling he leans,
softly padding forward.
They told me
how three men were found,
shriveled husks beneath the leaves,
naked shells.
They told me how
they found the pellets
by the pebbled lake,
clothes and bones
and nothing else.
And how I shake to see him retch,
his breath-fog catching moonlight
and he raggedly turns to sniff,
his deadened sockets find my shadow.
His maw unhinges
and his throat rattles soft.
They'll know me by my boots
and crack-ed teeth.
I only hope
they never know him.
:thumb490517912: Wake in VegasIf I could drink you from the sky tonight
I would -
drink the brown bourbon blackness
with stars for ice -
as the moonlit-salty neon line
separates the land
from the lonely battered void.
I'll raise a glass to the sky tonight
while the neon splits and the world crashes through
like a broken neck
see me praying you were here - through tumbleweed canyons
through all the static porno waves
that crowd the space between us,
and in swollen spite 
watch me clean my bony drunken theatre
of all your hungry, truant atoms.
(time)
Fear ebbs - a sober starlight wakes me
cold - inside paltry sobs
I gather you like kindling from the ground - tossed polaroids
in the wind
stack you upon your pedestal
with you watching down
through all this madness
through the bleached love/guilt curtains
like an angel.
Watch me drink to you in the sky tonight
with me still caught in this thickening land
like a quantum boxed-in slave,
like Schroder’s cat, like I might be alive
but I might be dea :thumb489109651:

resolvei am delicate and clumsy:
a bag of marbles rumbling around,
scuffing up her mother's wooden floors.
i often find myself asking why i couldn't be made of feathers.
i want to be soft and gentle, like mother:
weightless and wistfully blown somewhere i'm wanted.
no, i had to be a heavy thing
that stays when it should roll away.
i swallow them one by one.
smooth, cold, and round, the glass goes down easy,
but words fumble their way out of my tiny mouth.
hammers crack, crack, crack at the little orbs
until slivers and chunks of each one embed in my stomach,
in my chest, and in my throat. A MURDERER'S TALEShe laid crumpled in the stairwell,
a pile of flesh and bone emptied of any pale
blot of light animating her lifeless corpse,
only the streetlamp would dare tell of how
she fought against the thundering hooves
of some Nightmare assailing her in the dark
damp street, only a slab of concrete was there
to catch her when she fell like a ragdoll,
her neck bruised and broken and forever carrying
the imprints of my fingers when I found her,
so ready and willing to die as my hands squeezed
the life from her, I stared into her amber eyes
enraptured by the fear I saw embalming her
mortal depths with something almost profane,
she choked and gasped-pleading to breathe-
still I wouldn't release her from my deadlock
vise, my hands squeezed her throat until I heard
the crunch of bone and the exhale of her last
breath, her eyes were as empty as my black heart...
she laid a crumpled heap of nothing at my feet,
no one saw her fall, no one heard her cry,
no one but I and I was the moster who had
snuffed
:thumb490229535: Memory Remember that day we sat in the open field? No? Well I must have been alone, thinking of you. I remember your presence there. The field went on for miles and miles, becoming a blur of brown, sienna, yellow ochre. When I stared at it for too long, I lost my balance in the waving grasses. I had to find the tree to right myself again. One lone stubby tree in a million miles of dreaming field.
 I remember the light coming from the left somewhere, because it struck the tree in a most magnificent manner. Its shadow stretched long and thin, finally fading into blurry little fingers. I don’t know the brand of tree it was, it was unfamiliar to me. Short, stubby, gnarly trunked, with large bushy leaves over little pods. Well actually, the pods and everything else must have been bigger than I remember. I was a very long way from the tree.
 The sky was malevolent blue that day, with long rust-and- grey clouds sweeping sideways across it. A thin strip of pink on the horizon ga

Mature Content

huntthe rats are fat enough
to die happy
and this is where
I should be:
a dirty screen and light.
the weak, thin music
you hear in waiting rooms,
in supermarkets
in bed, face up,
alone enough to find lust
misguided.
this morning I bought
a loaf of bread-
and reflections of the lights
limped across the plastic.
I left, went home.
found twin peaks on tv
and watched strange people have
strange visions.
after an hour or so I
turned off the tv,
turned on the light
went upstairs, without
any bread.
the sun was down
under a blanket
and I am the sun.
I lay face up
and plan out ways
to slay the night.
:thumb487964235: :thumb450404675: Retrograde LullabyeA slow fall
back into the primordial ooze
happiness and sadness are equally elusive
The human condition does not allow one
without the other
After a time, we cannot but help
turn tragedy into comfort
and angst into homecoming
for nature does not decree this
only we, as we heed the call of the ooze
Restless are we who sense the slide of time
Thought cannot save us
Emotion betrays
We must embrace eternity in the briefest of moments
and ride scarecely coffined into the ooze
Vietnama cellar door was beginning
to open somewhere in all of us
emerging somewhere between
the throat and the spine,
spitting out ink as it burrowed deeper,
machine-like,
giving a new place to hide and store
smiles for better days,
a place for matchbooks and
milk cartons and anything in-between
a place to harbor unkept promises and
other multitudes of sorrow.
memories that
had been placed on shelves with chipped
white paint
high above the earth
were brought underneath us once again
at this not-quite cemetery,
the all-encompassing "i-love-you"
buried deeply in the mix
of scattered blades and bones
as we learned
how to confront skeletons
belonging to strangers other than ourselves.
from passing by the roses strewn
at the feet of the fallen and feeling
the names of the dead on the cold, wet
stone, there became a certain
satisfaction in breathing
and even more in realizing we still could.

Mature Content

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