Wind chimes skittered through thin air. Like the air liner winking out below me. And I wonder what the jet setters on flight 3-oh-something (I heard later) were listening to. When things went to white noise on their approach.
My dad bought my brother tap shoes. For my funeral, my brother admitted. I scratched my chin because my Dad and I are on the same plane. Our memories more or less lost and expurgated. We converse now and then like foot-steps upon water. Only the ripples are ulcers.
Life is what I’ve made of it. Except that I can only make from what I remember, which usually never happened. Some kind of ad hoc solipsism. Liar comes up often. I twirl my spoon through a new cookie candy cereal wondering about anemic pregnancy. And bad coding.
My heart syncopates when I hear a diesel engine howl through the night. Because I don’t really believe. Trash collection would happen at 3 AM. On a Sunday. And I tighten my blanket about my ears. And feel myself. Losing sleep. Minutes slipping by like headless black pythons.
Dad told me they were real. He told me 90% of the universe is dark space made of things we have no names for and no way to see and in the dust between the stars an entire kingdom of evil could hide and no one would ever know. Wind chimes again. I wonder what it feels like. When they touch you.
Dad and I. Are fighting over conflicting memories of conversations we didn’t have. But that’s just what mom tells me. What does she know? Is a legitimate question. Irrelevant, eventually, because one of these days the mid-nap turbulence that snaps open our eyes will be a four engine flame out.
original works of parts
A State
A state of immediacy
chills round my ears
when the wooden go kart
race for her heart ended
with a rejection letter the size of the catskills
and a cousin for a prom date.
A state of immediate atrophy
loosens my ore laced viens
when a bird lands on my sill
a week to the day on this,
the last one of highschool.
We learn hope is more hopeful
when there's no home
and no dream to cling to
immediately after we left
the state of blue paper mache mountains
for the state of blue lakes
on this, the last of naive summer breaks.
A state of immediacy siezing upon me.
chills round my ears
when the wooden go kart
race for her heart ended
with a rejection letter the size of the catskills
and a cousin for a prom date.
A state of immediate atrophy
loosens my ore laced viens
when a bird lands on my sill
a week to the day on this,
the last one of highschool.
We learn hope is more hopeful
when there's no home
and no dream to cling to
immediately after we left
the state of blue paper mache mountains
for the state of blue lakes
on this, the last of naive summer breaks.
A state of immediacy siezing upon me.
Raking Leaves
The soft pop of dotted lines dreamt on treasure maps beneath the mottled rays of October’s sun still comes to me some fall afternoons,
Helping me keep the running tally of moments gone by since your dots and dashes turned into my missing keys and an empty pebble driveway.
Leaves are meandering to the ground like only you would, taking their sweet time, tiny treasure maps in hand, plotting courses that change more often than the seasonings in your mom’s pork roast.
Maybe it’s your mother’s oak stick sounding the dirge, for the tiny journeymen and their treasure maps, on the wheezing porch planks when she paces mid-afternoon. Maybe it’s the soft pop of us, a little less than a soap bubble, beneath the slanted dusks of October.
Helping me keep the running tally of moments gone by since your dots and dashes turned into my missing keys and an empty pebble driveway.
Leaves are meandering to the ground like only you would, taking their sweet time, tiny treasure maps in hand, plotting courses that change more often than the seasonings in your mom’s pork roast.
Maybe it’s your mother’s oak stick sounding the dirge, for the tiny journeymen and their treasure maps, on the wheezing porch planks when she paces mid-afternoon. Maybe it’s the soft pop of us, a little less than a soap bubble, beneath the slanted dusks of October.
Sex Untitled
snow settling on slips of glass
is silt drifting over the engines of our second world war,
is the muted darkness of a midnight alley murder.
when downy feathers rain from the
chewed pillows of the iced sky they
settle and asphyxiate the malice that spawned our
water logged machinations.
breathy ocean swells curl the souls of our wreck
like fingers sifting your tousled locks.
our smiles the exonerated murderers, love’s blood
still hot on our cheeks.
snow settling on broken glass
is the silence of your Hood and my Bismark, sent to the seabed,
is the hush of night, freshly penetrated with mercy's cries
is the white comforter that suffocates us.
is silt drifting over the engines of our second world war,
is the muted darkness of a midnight alley murder.
when downy feathers rain from the
chewed pillows of the iced sky they
settle and asphyxiate the malice that spawned our
water logged machinations.
breathy ocean swells curl the souls of our wreck
like fingers sifting your tousled locks.
our smiles the exonerated murderers, love’s blood
still hot on our cheeks.
snow settling on broken glass
is the silence of your Hood and my Bismark, sent to the seabed,
is the hush of night, freshly penetrated with mercy's cries
is the white comforter that suffocates us.
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