// The Bluebruised Heart //

I had tried to speak to you
but the trains all fell from their tracks
and the sky seemed to bleed
its bluebruised heart

between the words in my mind
and the numbness which
grabbed stiff hold of
my tongue.

So if you could just be patient
and not give up on not
letting go
I swear I will be coming home

and it will be so soon
and it will be so crushingly beautiful

like our toes in the
dunegrass and the tiny birds running
along the ocean sunlight
sing.

I know that right now it is quiet
in the night
as you feel the heat
sloping itself through open summer
windows.

Tender sweat has dampened your
alabaster skin
like tears
a whole body cries.

I know the silence hurts more than
any other
sound.
But please remember

I am still here, my angel.

In the stillness of the moonlight
in the handwritten pages
you hold to your
chest.
In between your sweet breathing

and your bothered
fitful dreaming,
you and I
through all the words and beyond them,

and beyond them
even
still

we are forever bound.

.

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// Without Speaking //

If the words do not come
it can be very hard
to find my own feet, to recognize
my own reflection.

I do not think you
understand this struggle, the terror of this fog,
even when I am trying to speak
about it
because it is not something
which can be spoken
with words.

There are tremors a heart can only beat.

There are words a soul
can only be made of
and not release.

How wrenching it is
to stand before you
with this bouquet in my hands
you will never see.

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// You Come to Me Like Wine //

I have never met a man who
chain smokes the morning light quite like
you do. Reads my lips over
coffee and cream.

Who swallows the sky just
to make love to the rain.
You hanging stems from the

ceiling for me: basil, rosemary,
thyme.

Your skin is the fading of amber
oceans
opening the arms of twilight,
drips hot and slow
upon my tongue
at table.

I crawl weightless
upon your knee.

The shape of my shoulders
is the way you taught me to dance
in the deadheat of night
dressed only in white linen
footsteps.

Your voice sifting the shadows down
across my fading afternoon
toes. Your song comes to me
like wine.

Setting fire
to the pages
of words left unspoken,
unfolding the bed
discarding the poetry.

.

.

// How You Are //

It’s so beautiful to see you out there trying with the cracks in your forehead and the whispering feather lines just beginning to form around the corners of your mouth. The days are a quiet crystal snow falling upon us, we are buried soft, cold, slow. But somehow you keep that light in your smile and your chest.

Don’t let them frighten you, heaven is the most ordinary of things. A slate gray sky and nothing to prove any longer. No more reason to rage against the falling out of time.

I wish I could sleep. I haven’t slept in ages, I just sift through blackened hallways of the night which calls to me in fire, in butterfly wings made of excitable circles.

Enough about my crumbling. Tell me how you are. Tell me what hurts. Tell me everything. What does it feel like inside that porcelain skin? Isn’t this mad rain the soak of the end of time? Wouldn’t that be lovely and a relief?

Please forgive me. Something in the rise of your face takes me back to infancy, to helplessness and greed, to a love so innocent that the feeding only makes it hungry.

This woman in me, she is the tilting sand in the hourglass, a ring of wax candles, weeping and singing for the clouds which cover the moon. Her veins are a river of planets, deep angel blue.

This is yours, wear it inside out, hold it close as God and then set it free. This is a season which has come for letting go.

Thank you for being here. I’m so glad you came, this garden is only iron wire and rust without your stories. I think you are beautiful and it is okay to be awkward for your entire life. No one else’s eyes bend like yours, but I bet you hear that all the time. I think you are beautiful even with my eyes closed.

Now maybe try to get some sleep.

.

.

// give me more //

We are foaming at the mouth with heavy greed, how it glides through the veins like silk silently threaded alongside joy; thrumming steady but out of sync next to the beats of the hurricane heart you gave away to the ones who do not know how to see the light in the darkness.

Let them go and use your hands to carve a home for yourself inside me. Cross my heart, cross my fingers, untie my secrets and hope to die.

We want more when contentment would require much less. I wonder when you reach for me, pull me close and try to hold on to something neither of us are sure how to name but we can taste the mad tugging in the jaw when it aches, do you feel the stars blowing in the wind? Do you feel the jealous sun sliding through the winter trees, heavy with hunger for centuries of sleep? As you place your fingers in my mouth and I obey, I am not here in this body you crave, I am above the world looking down upon this strange darkening scene where we dissolve in the wine on each other’s tongues, and dance and fall and crumble and disappear.

Dolls that will break are already beautiful. Horses that will run are already free.

I hear the voices of the loudest ones and they sound like insanity draped over a vacancy no one dares to speak about, while inside my skin my sins are screaming. They sound like white noise caught on plastic bags floating down the heels of a crowded city street: dirty, disregarded, excessive, hollow.

They sound like nothing and yet people hand over their lives, their last thin dimes, and their slim cut souls, all these little people like insects trapped, going numb waiting for it to matter, for someone to notice that no one notices anymore. We are homeless, we are hunted, we are gladiators. We are white pearl eyes on fossilized  butterflies, we are filthy money down the drain.

Your hand moves toward me slow, a subtle gesture in the mysterious dark. It does not remember as the heart does not forget, where you and I have been. The body in slow motion betrays the mind, you are warm flesh and erotic games beneath the cold night air in my lungs.

How these fingers thread through the bones, whatever it is we are searching for lives forever in the paper tissue dreams which never left us. They can never leave us. They are the fabric of the moon, the place where the bodies of every ocean in every galaxy connect. They are five thousand red mercurial suns setting along the cyclical edge of time.

You at the back window seat of my mind, you on the lines they took from my hands. How I adore you. How many bloodstained years have I been gone.

.

.

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// lady in waiting //

I sit down to write but the only thing that comes to me is everything I’d rather not say. Writing is just like anything else, the hardest part is finding a way in. Shadowy advances, wet wide eyes, shattered hearts, lovers stalking alley ways, all come in jars they hope you can’t see, but writing is tougher to open even on a good day. A drink and a half later, I’m undressing in the doorway, watching you as you absorb the fading evening light that drapes itself around my body. I wish you thought of me as a temple, intricate tunnels adorned in golden dragons with emerald eyes, ferocious winged mystical things, but delusions like these are just a way of shadowboxing with the truth. Even in this heady haze I know what we want to be and what we are is split by glass of a thick and distorted kind. You ask me to spread myself over you and my skin is hot pricks head to toe, the way you barely touch me makes the beginning taste like spiced flecks of the afterglow, just the way I like it.

Under your command I am a dove, an alien, a robbery, a beast because I have learned to stay awake even in my sleep. Once you become aware of the ground beneath you in dreams, the rest is simply sleight of hand. We try to shift ourselves wide enough to take more than we ever thought possible but it’s hard when you’re certain there’s a message tucked behind the eyelids of everything, and you’d swear on your headstone that the rain smells of swollen lips and secrets you thought were buried inside someone else. Seven minutes in heaven, spin the bottle, the time you skinned your knees on ice, slammed back to life by the sting. Your first kiss stabs me in the back, spills blood across the time before all the times you can’t stop sifting through now.

Be patient with me, angel, even in expert hands like yours this doesn’t get any easier. Winter seems to follow winter, all the seasons of dying and frost take place at once like a crystalline nest of frozen trees that crush your tender throat. Time is a gift and a thief and a scream and I promise to collapse the minute you leave. You wrap my hair in braids tight around your strongest arm, the pain is just enough to catch my breath on a single hook. This bizarre strain of release, a decadent thorn. There will be rug burns and bathtubs but my mind is walking on the street counting black birds on a wire over the railroads tracks I was framing for photos; five, six, seven of them in a crooked row and one far off, alone. This doesn’t mean anything, of course, except that I am not in the world the way I’m supposed to be; I’m in the one I resurrected from cut-out dolls, cardboard panoramic scenes, living in the cream-colored curl of imaginary pages.

Pain comes to me daily but I trust it, I let it lead if it wants to, it teaches me not to hide as much. The way you slide into me is a forked tongue, one side torture, the other ecstasy; I have to take them both or deprivation. As night takes over the moon, the salt in my veins sparks and flashes all around us like colors from the dark side of rainbows. You need not cry for this strange love, I like to watch the pieces of me fall, it’s the only way they catch the light. I’m stronger now. And even though generations of misguided wars rupture themselves through me before you can even say my name, it’s beautiful madness to hear you try.

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