Eye Contact

The moments trickle from ignorance; we are the wonder-smell of old books.
Spiked trifles of potential vine down my back,
planting me firmly in the now.

In the friction and distance between,
our minds dance behind veiled feathers.
We are filthy spectators with money

to spend on a good show. The theatre of maybe
built brick-wise by both of us eventually
will dominate headlines. Today,

the shows stay small despite the dedicated casts.
The moments dart under conversations
like frightened cats from the threat of thunder.

I don't care where these glances deliver us
as long as you won't ask me to drive.
But know we are a hushed river

whose water whispers motion into the mud
beneath it. I'll fight your moonlight-slit eyes
with my wooden dagger for a bit longer. Someday I'll surrender.

Vines wilt.
Rivers run.
Shows end.

Without Fire

I paste myself against a coastal horizon
amongst the trailing swirls of pink and orange.

Over my shoulder a cloud morphs from a rabbit
to a shell-less snail springing over the falling sun.

I am without fire and alone. There is nothing
in the sand alongside condolences and sea-slate.

I notice the moon is late to its purpling canopy
while wavelets whisper the final slices of sun

towards the shore. There are yet no bottles,
nor messages, nor stars. I am without fire.

I stare across our oak breakfast table
and you are a close-up of eyelids dangling
over the morning's paper. We sleep
in separate oceans anticipating mornings,
the waves have pushed us into rigid currents.
We do not talk, there is nothing new to mention.
You eat your rye toast and I count the crunches,
noticing my reflection in my cup of cheap
black coffee. I keep hopes for a better lunch.

From behind a folded map
you mention brier patches,
which I have never seen.

I counted holidays by her blushing cheeks,
she hid her shopping stories in her skin.
Illuminating her patchwork veins with every lie,
I could always know the truth by her rouge twinkle.

II

I count nicks on the spaceship
as you smile, rattling
outside of the grocery
while your mother naps at home.
You are a brave astronaut
with orders to examine
imagined planets abroad.
I relate to the distance.
I doubt you count who's with you
these afternoon vanquishments
as you conquer galaxies,
not wanting of love or sleep.
If you want to ride again,
I will put more quarters in.

A Woman

The tree has crumbled in my hands,
The sap has blackened and flaked on my arms,
The tree has hallowed my breast -
Caverned,
The branches have been amputated.

Tree you were,
Mossed you are,
You are a snag with water above you.
An adult - so buried - you are,
And all this is folly to the worms.

She screamed at me,
"You're a no-hope kid."
I thought I would want
her blueberry wrists but
secrets seem beautiful
as a stranger.

Puddles settle black
into slick gravel patches
and pothole dimples.

Orange streetlights halo
scattered blocks of dark houses
with deep desert tints.

Awake

I'm staring at dawn,
while the house sleeps around me,
and lonely like God.

Dreams disappoint me,
I disrupt their faded charms
to stalk the morning.

Outside

The trade winds at our backs,
we burnt our money, dancing
in the ashes. A new beginning
with no destiny, freedom
finally owned and lingered in.
River rapids would find us,
and the vapid southwest breeze
would remind us of our mothers
baking memories in an oven
with their sweet steam-makeup.
We conceded family and possessions
for even the threat of adventure.
I shall never forgive my identity,
it was a gift I had not wanted.
Now, tramping through God's beard,
drunk in the passion of nature,
we are only essence. Lucky to die
in the exploration, building
a sturdy sole along the way.
Let the straw grass lament our passing
so it might seem worth the outburst.
With these clothes as our only shields,
the sun and the moon might devour
our purity. Though hopelessly shallow,
we would eulogize every puddle
as we construct landscape memories.
Finally, we breathe honest air,
the same breath unseen trees share.
The good graces of being would shine
down on our questing for its irresponsibility,
but remind us of the liberty in survival.
We will raise our autumn flags
in the fortress of winter. Dark
spring mornings will birth us into summer.
The sky employs us to continue
the trek. Completion is the peace we find,
reveling in our bodies, the universe
feels less bitter when home is a daydream
and the horizon is our compass.

Paydirt Pagans

The paydirt pagans
crawl towards Sundays and summer,
drawn to the hot air.

I stay home these days
chasing the hours with sleep,
laughing through dream-grins.

They want to heal me,
lay hands on my lost body.
I ignore their heat.

Summer '09

I'm all Diet Coke and Wu Tang,
Pop corn and the smell of summer-cut grass.
In daylight kisses I feel I'm home,
And I snuggle warm into the lap
of these stretching weeks of dusk and dawn.
I cycle through dance beats and alarms,
learning to fall and the soreness of acomplishment.
Someday I'll feel employed by the trips
I've not taken and will trust my tired wheels.
Now, I'll just yawn into what fur I've collected,
ignoring the fleas and shivers,
looking for a friend to scream synthesized with
in these ruthless mornings before I fall asleep.

Parties

Social circles cruise
past the lonely left-behinds,
at least they saw fun.

If I Sleep

If I sleep
I breathe ancient dust
onto crystal targets
mounted on my lips.
The dust drips from its soul-cell
coating my chin and throat
then attacking all movement,
shattering streams of light,
raining them to the floor,
learching the room towards total night.

If I sleep
I drown in visceral hourglasses,
counting chromatic kisses
sabotaged in suffocated adventures.

If I could only wake,
rip open the windows,
kicking through the panes if needed,
I could clean this weighted room,
swimming back to some unstuck melody,
free from breathing my dream-dust.

But if I sleep,
I stay asleep until the breathing is done.

Old Man's Song

"Only the death in my eyes,"
the gray man assured,
mounted in his hickory rocking-chair,
"can keep the breeze of life
from blowing in me. And that's why
I keep them closed."

He let his mouth close
around his last words and began
to blindly hum a guttural hymn
I did not recognize. The man
rose his arms into the room
with flamenco patience
shifting his ragged weight
forward in the chair. Worried, I
sat opened mouth with my eyes
shinning across the room
toward him. The hickory rocking-chair
lurched forward, tilting the hungry frame
of the man out onto his bent legs.

The man then rose his voice
as he did his arms, first
into his high neck then
into his alarm-mouth,
wailing, with his lungs
behind him, some holy song.

And I started clapping along,
staring, nearly drooling,
at my hands which had
naturally slid into the rhythm
without my noticing when.

And he sang for what seemed like hours.

Watching the Clock

I stalked the clock
following the falling
seconds, rubbing my hands

back-and-forth on the desk,
trying to drag them
with the rhythm of the day.

My dry hands scraped
the surface of the cheap desk,
raking the sound of desert rock-sand.

Rubbing the desk I found
my own time and sweat trails
swirled under my progress.

The scraping turned to
sloshing while I routed
my oasal puddles. The clock
evaporated from purpose.

Driving Someplace New

Your chest shook
in your flannel shirt;
you were a rattle,

jabbering on about the car,
the traffic, and weather.
I did not care

if it was overcast
or if we were stranded
in the rush hour standstill.

We left early enough
not to worry about mirages.
I could have bathed

myself in your saucer eyes,
glinting over me driving
and the landscape blurring

behind us. You smiled,
full of happy secrets
and plans. I only knew

because you held my hand,
squeezing with every heavy
sigh after hours of miles.

Again, again.

The clicking keys crash
into plastic pecks dotting
each keystroke decision.
Am I writing again?
I must be.
Don't hush me.
Let these fingers frisson
across whatever manifesto
they happen across.
Let them burn the albatross
from the sky and fling love
letters between the thighs
of every panting maiden.
Hands, surprise me.
Brain, infatuate me.
Let's send this empty space
into space and reflect
on the journey. Let's fly,
soar, and score in whatever
arenas we invent. There will be time
for form later. Let's just write now.

Let’s Go Out Tonight

I need flashing lights
and the 1980’s playing
in my ears. I need dancing
and a bass line pulsing deep
like twilight traffic on a Friday night
with the coast in view. Make me
a white sports car so we cruise
to synthesizer screens and count
the shades of cocaine neon distracting us.

Dizzy me into a slow burning morning
and another layer of stubble
rings on the tree of my face
counting my good nights.

I want camera flashes
and still memories
and to linger on the trip there
in swagger-tilted attitude.

Let’s go out tonight.