// Still Life //

I had been imagining a house
detached
coming off the hinges
of itself.
Inside where the people
are very beautiful
and they are
not speaking.
Their tongues have all been broken
by the jaws of much
too much
to say.
And there in quiet makeshift rooms,
the halls of footsteps grinding on stairs,
indecision,
medication,
fear of spiders and
wire hooks,
in the cold chambers of their slender shadow hearts,
black birds are singing human words
we would recognize as symbols.
Silent are these people
in their lovely cut out houses,
trapped together
falling apart.

.

.

// Looking Glass //

What would it take to touch the face
the one you hide away,
everything I cannot stand about the way you move
lives here on the dark side of my shoulder in
all the days which mark with red the end.

As the scrapes glide down the thin cell walls
of my fragile
mind, I am made to come apart
and yet

I am only washing my knees with
small tears at the feet of it.
Whatever this is,
believe me.

Wherever we need to go,
take me.
We have been there before (we have been everywhere
we just couldn’t see it was forever) and we

know the finger streets in the palms
of it
and it knows our gravel stone
hearts bleed well.

Whatever this is calls to me from the
holes in your eyes.
It contains and contaminates everything we
cannot bear to

speak about.
Please forgive my dying mouth but,
my love, this quiet is becoming so
loud.

This crimson world crawling upon my lungs
is crumbling, ashes to ashes
dust to dust and I
am afraid I do not know how

to count backwards from
I might
be losing you.

.

.

// With You //

I know they will take you
and I will have to let go
of everything I ever built, everything
that mattered
more than everything.

So this is the aria for the lengthening of tenderpain,
this is the sorrow which is keeping the
the skies above
from alighting upon the earth.

This is life running her chainlink vacancies
through stale hotel rooms,
racing my bloodstream
over the hills which eclipse my pale moonbody
in the bruised desires of night.

What they cannot know
is that hidden inside me, of course,
is you.

And this is a language you have
always known. There are no words
between us.
Listen deep for its
singing, listen with all of your
empty pages.

Listen for the coming darkness.

Reach with your eyes and
take in her static
dressing gowns.

I am within the voices. I am within the faces
you see reflected at the windows
of a time gone by.

The tides are the beating of my heart
curling and receding upon your breast.

Wash the sheets and keep the curtains
closed and know by the firelight
eternity
is home.

Inside the secrets inside the stars which you have not yet met,
there I am on the edges
with you.

Wherever they take you, my beloved,
there they will take me, too.

.

.

 

 

// Behind the Sky //

Then there were all the ways

we never found what we were looking for.

We did not know its color or

how to recognize its sound.

The way the lights descended from the heavens

and filled us so bright until the dark

felt like home again.

The home to light is darkness,

they belong inside of one

another and become

a single swaying being

no one knows how to speak about.

And so the silence, on one specific invisible day

and not one day before,

begins gathering twigs and little bones of

things deceased,

assembling her nest inside the

blinding noise.

And this is how we burn our lives away

waiting for daybreak

hiding behind the sky.

Expansion.

Detachment.

Release.

.

.

 

// Run //

I used to know the way of holding fast
to the rings
around your circle eyes
but now it is too dark to see
the headlamps made of the bones of my
mistresses, they brought in
in tomes.
My cry is a mouth which cannot breathe.
The green on the walls
makes me forget where I am:
tired and sick of mentioning the walls
without climbing them
why write them down
at all.
Breaks in the fingers, breaks in the speech,
breaks in the little skins
scratching at me.
Maybe I’m too strong.
Maybe I am very confused
by the bird songs I have read on your
tomb.
The riotous sun rages up along the graveyards
jutting through the oceans
in my chest.
Lovers made fools of the stones they threw in.
You and I and art and death
we are all here headless in this punctured
life raft bed.
The words come faster than I can catch them
how cruel their kindness, how ugly
we are bred.
I have been through much worse than you
but the last thing I want is to get
through you now.
You do not ask me to be of service.
You do not place me behind twelve doors.
You do not light matches with the flames, blessed be thy forked tongue.
This is the colour of anger
this is the fingerprint of the song of demons,
this is the way we eat our own teeth,
cut our own breast,
touch our own weakness,
hallowed be thy name
hallowed be thy frantic recalculation.
Take these books from around my
wrists,
take this bandage from around my neck.
Remember how to sing for me
the way it was.
Remember the things I will not ever forget.
They do not know the darkness hides itself.
They do not know it is the heart
of the light.
They do not know the way it
hurts.

.

.

// Temptress //

This madness is crowding in on the coffee and cigarette smoke, my limbs are phantoms, my limbs are nightmares tangled in long-legged night sweats,
I moan as the thrum of your heady scent
erupts like pricks of sedation at the back of my throat.
This was twelve nights prior to the loss of God, this was yet to burn away the clouds, this was crushed poison and weather vanes coming undone.
Blush curtains, floor to ceiling,
holding speech in the folds of their wrists
collecting dust and you,
tenderloin heart in your mouth, palms wrapped tight
upon the posts of my
alabaster
bed
looking up.
Hands fold, eyes fold, blind folds,
three lush creases line the hollow face
of our disregarded love letters:
one at the neck of the fold,
two at the waist of the fold,
three at the blood fire in the folds.
You touch me anywhere. Sound becomes lace becomes bone.
Pillow feathered patterns press my milken skin
as I trace the star stained desires in your mind.
I will breathe and you will breathe
and we’ll count
seven thousand times back
from eternity.
You and I
we’ve spent heavenly mouthfuls of time
swallowing the nights like knives.
They were
strange beheaded creatures
sliding hooks along
bare walls.
Folded, too, were the love made hours
into flesh, into tear drops, into fingers, into the soft curves of
dewy breasts, cream linens, elbows, skies.
I can still feel you say it against my chest, that pleasure always bent for me
the way of a broken afternoon on sidewalk shadows,
thorough, extensive, discreet.
Your tongue thirsty at my thighs and this somber light
between us
is a hallowed illusion of peace.
All the miserable gray snow
flung fast upon the ground.
All the cruel heat in your penitent eyes
gazing down.
This madness is crowding,
is crowding us in.

.

 

// Write All Of It //

I believe if we want to remain prolific, if we want to maintain flow, if we want to continue to be nimble, a writer must write all of what it means to write. Just like with any kind of life, the struggles we go through to create are part of the creation itself.
Birth, death, ecstasy, curiosity, brutality, resurrection.
So much of what we have to do is sheer survival of the word, of the vision, of the expression.
All the ways the words are meant to be formed, the way they are forming within us, it is so often a terrible mess.
It can be very hard to break through. And the brave ones keep going. The brave ones write all of it.
So write all of it.
Even as many people come and go,
as they adore you and forget you,
as they question you and open you
and move on.
As they stay.
Do not worry about them.
You are still here.
You are still this heavy beautiful collection of dark skies
stealing catches of light through trees.

.

.

// Lovers Cry //

Some days I pray only
for hard rain.
Rain to wash away the streets. Hot rain until I bleed heat underneath my fingernails,
feel the anguish inside me like matchsticks struck upon the bare hands
of lost polaroid time.
I pray for hard rain to penetrate the wild fire in my bones.
On these days, we are now not speaking. On these days we are now sipping whiskey as the setting orange sun splits the trees like razors through electric wire.
Why am I different, why is this different, why am I always in the dark when you find me?
There are clouds of gray smoke affixed to my lungs
from swallowing my tears too soon. The rain begins now falling up, the world turns to ashes now falling down
upon wide open red fields. Is this why we came?
You look through me and climb through the gaps, my heart is a broken window.
Is this all there is?
I gaze back at you but do not dare expel the words. Cracks in the ceiling were cracks all along, floorboards shifting like the ocean tide and I am now not
standing.
Is this the best you can do?
As night rolls into morning fog, I am distracted: what about the boats we’ve untied, they are now burning, they are now never coming back.
You tell me it was me and I am ashamed because I cannot remember. I cannot seem to touch the memories which cloud behind the mind.
Screens are now movies, screens are now backdoors in the summertime, screens are now fireflies on brown sticks trapped in jars. Screens are now slamming, screens are now screams.
Why can’t love take it all back
when love can climb the walls
in the rain?
Maybe she does
but you don’t see she cries like I do.

.

.

// the bones of the artist //

I love that you do not shy away from your humanity,
divinity,
possibility,
uncertainty.

I love that you move into them, inhabit them, crawl inside them and open up your soul before them, allow yourself to become what they are in full tragic erotic chaotic bloom.

It takes my breath away to know you let them fill you, emerge from you, surround you,
have you,
have you,
have you.

And in that holy space, in the infinite spread of that rarely glimpsed suspension, you are as still as you are in motion. You become the flesh and blood of every creature ever born into this madness.

You allow their wisdom to touch you everywhere.

When I see you, I feel all of this written across the sky inside my heavenly earthen body.

Because I know in the secret chambers of my wild heart that which you know in yours:

that if it is not tearing at the bones, it is not poetry. 

.

.

// face at the window //

Forgive me, beloved,

for I know not what I do

with this terrible

overwhelm of beauty

before me, beside me,

pressed at the doorframes of my

deviant mind.

Her soft body maddens the veins,

mutilates the heart,

she dwells

and swells within me.

~

And I am afraid this is who I am,

this bend in my wrist toward crooked things;

the way the pain pins her mesh sick wings

to the whispering floorboards.

Is this who I am.  These expert invisible hands.

I am troubled of this knocking

knocking

knocking

knocking

against the spine cage.

~

Disrobe me as the moon clutches at the

breast, at the stomach, for absolution.

I am afraid this

must be my nature,

the threading of my distorted face,

for this howl floods the house with silence

but never does she leave me.

.

.

.