--OH, THE CANVAS CAN DO MIRACLES, JUST YOU WAIT AND SEE 

--GO ON AND TELL ME WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO SAY

The Language of Beavers

It's not a dream

I watch the beaver

flop on the dock

shake his pelt dry

an ice pick in one paw

a skull in the other

him then carving calligraphy 

on the scrimshaw with 

the intensity of a doula

An hour later he 

dives into the lake 

soundless as a cloud 

leaving his message behind 

I don't recognize the scrawl 

for what is the

language of beavers? 

But I do recognize the 

brainpan as my own 

the one that went missing

all those years ago 

--I'M LYING ALONE, WITH MY HEAD ON THE PHONE, THINKING OF YOU TILL IT HURTS 

Proof

I've been watching 

the glaciers slow-melt 

like glue-fingers, 

slippery and syrupy, 

unable to untwine, 

the nights confused 

and co-mingled, 

days stuffed with rain clouds, 

like cotton candy 

or ZZ Top beards, 

nothing for them to do 

but crowd out the sky 

and be annoying AF 

while a nameless ache 

knits a nest in me, 

right here in the heart, 

my mouth relying on 

homemade imagination, 

stitching its own song, 

repeating the mantra, 

Hey You, 

you're actually 

real after all,

and now we're both 

here to prove it.

--LIFE AIN'T A THING UNTIL YOU LIVE IT

--JUST ANOTHER WHITE TRASH COUNTY KISS

Happy Father's Day

I know you can hit

because I've seen 

the busted sheetrock

broken eye sockets

goldfish gnawing on fingers

at the bottom of a 

pitch-perfect black bowl

It's not that easy being green

looking east when there's

an inferno

right here in my lap

burning my boyhood down

But you must have said 

you loved her 

and maybe also us

though there are bloody 

teeth in the sink while 

your knuckles gleam like a 

series of triumphant moons

Dad--you are my dad, right?--

raise the butcher knife high

kill the monster and please for once 

be the man you were meant to be

 

—OUT HERE THE BIRDS DON’T SING, OUT HERE THE BELL DON’T RING

 

 

what am I

 

I tell the therapist I’m

broken not busted

but he just smirks

like a toppled tombstone

or the death valley sun

I unpack my duffel

toss my dirty underwear

on the floor but he just smirks

like a taxidermied lament or

canceled ryan adams song

spinning in a loop no one ever hears

I tell the therapist there’s

an Uber in the alley

a limo idling in my throat

that it’s prom night

which is why I’m wearing

this bloody boutonnière

but he just smirks and

swallows two-fifty flat

I tell the therapist I’ve

got nothing left to say

but he just looks at me

mona lisa-like winking with

one eye fixed on the window

the other waltzing out the door

 

 

—I SAW THE MINUTES THAT I TURNED AWAY

 

 

 

Bases

 

I’ve left

my life,

of late,

belt-high

in the middle

of the plate,

three men on,

grand salami,

fans waving all

those regrets home,

one streaking death

at a time.

 

—I DON’T WANNA BE THE BLACKEST OF THE SHEEP

 

 

Fortune

 

It’s been a

choppy fall

off this trike

& I’m flush

out of wonder

Sue me

Fuck me

Do I care?

That cloud

over there

has a rifle

pointed at my

temple and

you keep calling

me paranoid

again and again

I just need

some more

mac and cheese

without the cheese

swim a last lap

do a face-plant

from a tall place

and finally find

my fortune

 

—I SEE YOU, AND RAISE YOU TWENTY

 

 

Dear God,

 

How are you doing? Busy, no doubt.

 

I’m not in the habit of asking for favors but I could use a couple right now. Seems the Suicide Prevention Hotline is too popular, experiencing unusual call volume, which is why they put people on hold for five minutes or more. Maybe they’re understaffed. Maybe they’re writing new scripts. Who knows? It’s not my place to judge.

 

If you’ve got an extra safety net, a soft one with firm thread, perhaps you’d consider loaning it out for a while. I know someone who really needs it right now. I’d be forever grateful, and also, the sooner the better.

 

Thanks so much for your consideration.

 

Sincerely,

 

Me

 

—IT ALL FEELS SO FAR AWAY

 

 

All-time Low

 

This morning I’ve

decided it’s okay to

not to be okay,

to be sullen and forlorn,

on the cusp of depressed,

wallowing in a manmade tarpit,

counting every spider

in the window,

each hanging from their

homespun noose acrobatically,

maybe a dozen of them,

and though their industriousness

is impressive, it’s enough

to make me even sadder,

more hopeless, hitting an

all-time low, deeper than

any casket or sunk ship where

the bones of ancient sailors

clang around the hull,

confusing fish, upsetting the ocean,

tapping a new encryption

one can only decipher if

you’ve given yourself license

to swim boldly with the misery,

let the tide drown you before you

have the chance to kill yourself first.

 

 

—I’D BE LYING IF I SAID IF I KNEW THE WAY

 

 

patina

 

whatever did we do

with that couch,

the one we broke in

by making love atop

the cushions doubled-up

for leverage and depth,

the couch that heard

our confession,

that plundered us with

corkscrew monogamy?

all those times we sat or lay there

shedding hormones and

sweat, semen and moans,

surrendering our souls so easily.

all that we left in the slits,

coins of course, tokens,

receipts and randy love notes.

yes, I’m referring to that same couch,

the one with the gold patina

where you called me a thief, a bastard,

and I did you worse,

breaching everything in sight,

even that which was thought

to be unbreakable.

I’m left with a parade

of questions, aren’t I?

like whatever did we do

to deserve each other, to own

such a fine piece of furniture,

one that held up everything

so readily, like a prop

or trusted brace,

like a friend who has

all the answers except for

how to get back home?

—WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?

 

Nothing is Everything

      for Bailey and Chase

 

When my son tells me his

best friend has overdosed

and that my son was the

one who found him,

blue and wood-stiff

on the bedroom floor,

there’s too much rain,

rain hammering on the sill,

on the lilies, on my eyelids, 

on the farthest Heavens,

yet the lawn is scorched,

my hair bone-dry, my

throat a cauldron which

won’t let me lift a word,

not a solitary syllable in the

gaps between his sobs and gasps,

those hollow spaces where

something helpful should

land and soothe and

maybe later take root,

because at a time like this

nothing is everything

and I have nothing to

say or offer and so

everything that matters in

the cracks, among the 

prolonged moments,

crumbles and becomes crushed

until I am worthless

sand in the rain, in the

rein of tears and black dread,

washed away across a world

of parched deserts mirrored

inside the rims of my

son’s deserted eyes

 

 

—STANDING ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD AND IT’S A PRETTY SHORT FALL

 

 

Some Kind of Blue

 

Stevie Nicks won’t

stop barking

as the swallows

swarm my window

frantic for a nest

I don’t have

today the lake

is a hollow jug

bone dry and down

on its fortune

out of step

with the times

some kind of blue

Miles might say

blowing sad magic

from the grave

hitting the last brass

keys on a

tapestry of remorse

while the wind twists

like a corkscrew

through my spine