—THE FACT THAT I’M ALIVE IS A MIRACLE

twice

i’m waiting

on a

royal flush

or another

a slow rush

patient as a

blind fox

with absentee

teeth / ambitions

and God knows

i shouldn’t

but i keep

listening to

these dark

songs i never

hear coming

each one a

black mirror

with my face

plastered on it

milk carton kid

with orphaned

emotions

but what’s

a boy to do

everyone worries

that i’m

not happy

    enough

not thick

    enough

not savvy

sturdy

correct

porous

    enough

not me

i’m just

your every

day dolt

trying to

straighten

the frame

for a better

pov / aperture

‘cause i’m

never sure

if they’re

right

or wrong

really it’s

hard

to know who

to trust

these days

the I love you’s

and the

I miss you’s

are all so

extroverted /

perverted

if i’m a

pawn

after all

just go ahead

and make

me dance

flip and flop

til my balsa

limbs break off

drop me

in the

closest can

and never

think twice

about it

i’ll be 

fine

—I’VE GOT A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY, BUT I GOT NO PROOF

that poem

that poem

I never finished

is still hanging

on the line

ink faint as

a blemish or token

goodnight kiss

but I remember the

first line and stanza

how the clouds

kept coupling

and uncoupling

like a bouquet of

undecided peonies

their edges dappled

with butterscotch sunlight

their centers blinking

for rescue

even now as I unclip it

the familiar

cadence returns

along with an unused

urgency in each sonic

and before I’ve

even sat down

the middle writes itself

and then the

next part too

my best work yet

something happy

for both of us

—I’M GETTING USED TO THESE DIZZY SPELLS

sort of

it’s a harsh day

living in a

puppet country

where that man shouts (…)

and this man shoots (…)

and it never stops

the smoking lightning

on staccato repeat

you gotta love a snuff film

where everyone’s accredited

you gotta love the weeds

coming up crooked

in your own cracked eyes

and me I’m

spending all my

hours drinking

contaminated proof

the kind from

gum-dry Mexico

it’ll get me drunk enough

or dead enough

to not be anyone

anymore

who cares

I guess I care

yeah I do

sort of I do

but I can’t figure out

why the trees won’t

lend a hand

the owls in them

some wisdom

even the raccoons

are wearing Kevlar

while on Pike Street

they’re painting

over over

over and over

and over

on your street

the blood might not

be dry or bled yet

and I get

the feeling we’re

at war with our

own clogged ancestry

and mysteries

if only I

knew you

and you

knew me better

but no here

we go again ha

it’s a steep fall

we’re all gonna spill

with no cushion

to catch us

no plaintiff willing

to make a case

—I’M MOVING PRETTY FAST FOR ME

Lucy

I wanna

be that

happy

pampered

and loved

lazing in

a tongue

of late

noon sunshine

or stretched

out like a

fur scarf

on the

world’s softest

plush blanket

waking when

I want

nudging

someone’s leg

to be

picked up

stared at

and held

this close

 

—EXCUSE ME, BUT CAN I BE YOU FOR A WHILE?

miasma

i took down

the scrolls

and every single cypher

rolled each

din and sin

into a single mat

shucked the bunch

over my shoulders

and tried to forget

about all that

but the morning

kept on

tugging on

my earlobes

trying to

tell me a secret

it had heard

about a man

from somewhere else

feeling sorry for himself

some fool who looked

an awful lot like me

so today i’m just

trying to find

a spit of

momentary slumber

for an evening i can’t

even recall

some dreams are so viscous

they weave themselves

into miasma

and you wake up

feeling like you’d be

better off dead

like this journal

i’ve started keeping

writing palsied rhymes

that only

make me weep

if i had a different mission

it might sand down my condition

but for now

i’ll just sell myself

for cheap

out on the

rippled clothesline

where that woman

used to hang

when she wasn’t busy

folding me

into a million

tiny squares

—I'VE GOT A PROBLEM EVEN ALCOHOL CAN'T SOLVE 

flute

words

fall hard

on me

code red

most times

bursting chandeliers

champagne flutes

busting through

the thin

lake ice like

an abrupt

t.k.o.

everyone sees

coming

but me

so thanks

for that last

uppercut

to the throat

because prior

i’d been

eating /

thinking /

drinking /

too much

or else

too less

and now

it’s problematic

to swallow

anything

at all

even my

stingy pride

and yeah

i’ve a few

more pounds

to shed

before i

bury

these tedious

bones

for good

perhaps i’m

an imposter

after all  

as you say

the lame

broken head

on a four-poster

corner bed

you tell me

please

please

sometimes you

see yourself

in someone

else’s fogged-up

breath and

it can be

bliss

or sometimes

it just makes

you feel

like less

than what you

hardly think

you are

so

bottom’s up

this drink’s

gonna sting /

on me /

for you /

who knows

where it’s

gonna land

—WHEN EVERYTHING IS LONELY, I CAN BE MY OWN BEST FRIEND

off the shelf

today I

took the

shoebox

from the shelf

blew

a skein

of mauve

dust off

the lid

and sorted

through every

sacred

piece of us

all the

tender bits

the bitter bits

we probably didn’t

really

mean

though they /

you /

me /

were

really

really

mean

at the time

and it was

impossible

not to smile

or cry

chuckle

clutch my heart

or reach

for a tumbler

of cabernet

just not to

feel

like that

it was

an exercise

my latest

conceptual

behavioral

therapist

equates with

closure

a wake

but the thing is

I still

hear /

see /

feel /

the wake

slap up against

my dull

skull

day and night

like an

ocean boulder

stuffed so full

and satisfied

with itself that

it doesn’t notice

the shale

flaking off

follicle by

follicle

turning into

the sand that

rides the waves

washing

up on a

beach 

like diamonds

too furtive

and slick

to catch