Silencer

Five hundred caliber.

Minister.

A preacher.

A reacher to end all things in a blink.

End all blood red vomit in a sink.

You and I we think.

Or maybe we stink.

Like dead bones dug up from ages ago.

Living bones are love from a time we cannot remember.

We remember most of everything.

Everything being a blanket over nose.

And mouth. How the is a construct to help us go.

Self conscious for a year and smeared.

Smeared lives.  How many times do I have to die before

I learn.

Get tired of waking up.  Don't we get tired of waking

anew.  Everything bleeds, sir!  Can you walk?

It doesn't rhyme.  Die or due to die or sky walk

backwards, strewn body parts and a head said

headset scripts are reserved for the deadset

skipset skip around everything exists at once

all the time every time dinner time kill every one

kill everything when you're born in a hell bear everything

every sound every taste every touch every beam of light

kill everything hurts.

Snort aloud.  Did that come out of my mouth?

Or did it come of out of my nose?

Everything hurts.

We were simple then.

Broken

bird

wings

gaudy

and 'purdy.  Some flash if the sun shone right.

Some photos to take if there was good moonlight.

Black grease and cages. Fences and contained rages.

Never leave home without a hawk is still rule.

Thirty three and still no actual tool.

Except the one I've honed.

Honed to protect a traveling home.

Snort laughter.

A bastard. Fantasize about deer slugs ending everything

that embodied what fear was

thelastthoughtyouhadworthhavingIhadanightmareaboutmydadand

I swear every day I want to kill him

with an antiaircraft weapon

shoot through the walls because if I step in

I'll walk right into his arms and he'll son me

the way he did for too many eras

and I will never make that mistake again.

Where his life ends my world begins.

Is the falsum I tell myself

to feel my time on this earth is worth its wealth.

I get tired of dreaming, screaming awake

like my 500,000 horsepower engines have a date with fate.

They don't.  I want to break the silence.

Take the forms to where they live.

Take the forms to where they build.

Talk is cheap, the market is.

Claps claps clapsclapsclapsclapsclapsclapsclaps.

The fires of rage do not have fences.

Chain links.  Fingers poke through, without rails, we speak.

Pain does not have boundaries.

Your worst self may be the best in the foundries.

I don't know where you're from.

I don't know who sent you.

What I know is I have been numb.

Numb for too long. A hip bone with no femur to tongue.

Getting our body together

300,000 days at the river.

Maybe not that long.

Time stops living life as a

NAN

Museum Afternoon

Thousands of ghosts
behind inch thick glass,
tastefully lit so they will not escape,
or open their plate
convincing the staff from outside.

Walking the beat
after everyone leaves,
jingle keys on my hip
to the windows and doors and the stairwell
to the roof overlooking the city.

Pass the janitor for this floor,
with his buffing machine
and headphones on
humming his music, tonight I like to believe,
just for me.

An empty case ahead.
The taxidermists are busy
in basement S3.
With thousand watt lights,
needles and magnifiers, gloves and masks.

Four floors up,
the central air groans through grates.
The food court has flies.
The Sperm whale blinks and a chair's foot squeaks
"everyone dies, some day."

Checking a watch and then a wall clock.
Nine more hours to go.
The elevator rings, opens, and remains.
No one mentioned
an exhibit cleaning.

There was a time
I could've swore
the cases would all

talk to me.

Check a watch and then a wall clock.
When we get home
we are never alone,
and more alone than we ever dreamed.
Once inside, take off our clothes.

Listening to you sleep while waiting for water to heat.
A lemon wedge in coffee on the fire escape.
Watching clouds flirt with the moon
while the star points and airplanes gleam.
Hairs stand on end

with the sun's morning yawn.
We have to go back
and place palm to glass.
We're never alone.
Tears clap to tile.

The janitor on this floor
nods and smiles
while we pretend to sneeze to wipe our nose.
Adjust the sleeves.
The elevator rings and closes.

Docking Procedure Aboard the JXL-789 Dread Class Junker

somewhere near the inner system weigh station just outside Sol's asteroid belt

"Is there anything you would like to declare JXL-789?"
Thumb hovers over the channel go button.
Press.
"Yeah."  Back to static.  Six navigation screens,
twelve cursors, and two graphs light the cabin
in delicious aquamarine and yellow hues
against shadows and ROY G BIV LEDs
snugged into recessed plastic sheet body hues
hiding metal black frames and wires underneath.
"What would you like to declare JXL-789?"
Tones and warning notes fall to silence and rejoin
with harmonies and arpeggio bells.  Custom re-encodes
because if you are going to live your life on a ship
you might as well make the good sounds really good.
It is always a good day when the inner systems defense network
does not want
to turn you and the ship you rode in on
into star dust.
They are still looking and scanning
without teeth.  Sniffing.
"It's been a long year.  Merry Christmas, assholes."

Unstrap while the processors wait for guides, coordinates
and paths
and dance.

Spin on the ball of the boot and skip shuffle on reinforced heels
capable of magnetism on the grates, not now.  Tap your heels together
to activate or moonwalk off the main deck.
Door open.
Swoosh.
Door close.
Swish.

Bounce.  Skip down the hall, the gravity generator doing it all
and a bag of chips snatched from the snack harness
as we slide.  The four heavy fold mauler engines make the entire floor
buzz standing still for a second before jumping farther in
headset on.  Fingertip to wrist to clip the channel to voice command:
"Josephine?"
"Yes, captain" the ship comes back.
"Can we turn off the gravity?"
"Yes, captain."

Heading toward the weapons deck
flicking switches along the way.  Lights on, lights off, lights on, lights off.
The weigh stations are boring as .... and take all day while they scan every
nook and bay for things we're not allowed to keep or must declare.
It's not fair, but it keeps the peace.  Nodding to bass in my head
there is no time for grief.

Fourteen chips in a bag, crumple and pocket it with the weapons deck flying close.
I learned a long time ago not to keep the big bags of chips stocked.
That was a nightmare to clean.  I still find crumbs in control panel seams.
"Joesphine, hail channel all speakers."
"Okay, Hobbes."
It's a dance party in zero gravity
until I bounce off the weapons deck lock.
Pat the chest mount key and air surges through with me,
pressurized of course, but one of these days I will get around
to fixing the meter that keeps the transition clean.

"Can I have some gravity, Josephine?"  Close enough to the grates
to land like a cat, it kicks and I rebound off of my thick padded knees.
Floodlights on, my mech is brilliant after a thorough wash through its lock;
opposite, my runabout fighter and far to the back where
the floods barely touch is my junker craft.  As much enormous claw and saw
as engine and wing.
With gravity good and the stage set we dance,
a little mud still stuck in boot treads falling off
through the grates
to no music
save for the bang and clank of crampon, leather, and jingle shuffle of jacket
playing in time to the jungle electronica bounding through my head.
"Ain't nothing like being back home now" laughed.

Poke and prod a few buttons hear and there with a twirl and catch
of dogtags orbiting my neck at the end of their chain.
Change the lighting a little and flip it back.
"We all get down in the disco," murmur dream.

Outside, lights flash in the darkness of space.  Req lights blink on and off,
portholes glitz and glam.  Point lights on fins and antennas wink and shine.
Waste dumps in a fireworks comet tail of crystals.
Get the party out of the way before things get serious.

"JXL-789 you are cleared.  Welcome back.  Stay out of trouble,"
comes over the public address system.  Fingertip to wrist:
"Thank you, thank you.  We'll do right.  We're not staying long."
Static.  The anthem of the inner system begins to play
with it's brass and snare and begins to fade.  Time to get going.
We're okay in their book.

Touch the mech, the runabout, and the junker.  Remember
the adventures and the scorch marks and dents that will have to be replaced
once we get back to Earth.
If we can swing it, I'll get them a paint job or two too.
What stocks ran out in darkest space.
Bring it back in one piece.  What is in the cargo hold
will buy it all back two fold.  Maybe three if we're lucky.
The junker life.
Gravity off, torpedo to the flight deck.  Settle the lights down
along the way.

Harness in to the driver's seat.  Why do I bother to keep passenger seats
these days?  "Ya never know what you'll find out there," I remind myself.

Six navigation screens glow a cool blue.  Cursors have settled.
Speed read the paragraphs and glyphs.  The coordinates are true.
Mind the sleeping weapons systems orbiting Sol outside,
tuned to be there whether the confederation of nations on Earth
is old or dissolved and built to bizarro specifications new.

The party is over.  Do business as business should be done.
The graphs shift and change on two screens.  The other four
blaze deep orange on black as cursors snap into action and read out.
Four heavy fold mauler engines
capable of moving a Marrowclare class close to light
rumble the bones of Josephine as we begin the long descent to Terra
on the ecliptic.  Switches and buttons and a few dials more.
Once she is good to ride I can let go and head for sleep.
I can't remember the last time I saw the Atlantic.
The calendar read out says it will be snowing when we reach orbit.
I worked on an ornament on my way through the outer giants.
I hope the entry station to walkabout has a Christmas tree.
It'll be nice to sit with other people and cheers a cup of
long steeped steaming tea.

Breaking Apart The Origin of My Siblings

The first was without purpose and beloved.
The first asked for a second and the second
was different.
The second begged a third to gallivant and play
and the first had an entirely different set of rules,
fuel, and sway.
The first could not take care of the second
though the second could take care of the first,
however,
the second all alone could not be burdened
with that curse and so the third time was the charm
and the spell came true.
Two boys and one girl, two combat, train, and flume.
What would the first do, but to have see after
twin devils.
Fighting with sticks and rocks and guns
to be trained to be twin angels
while the first learned to dance and instrument,
to care for two angry robust hearts,
and so was born one last
angel capable and sound and sweet as a tart.
Two animals with horns that locked and played,
stout shoulders and brought up to make buildings sway
and one angel at the beginning who only wanted company
had two soldiers to journey and be quick with blades
with her other side born apart
and the knowledge that
we are all a part
of her original dream and to the wind intentions.
Adult and grown up
each of us a different invention.
Nothing came to be to their blue print looking down.

A symphony
when our strings hum
a song and  a sound

be it a single note held
or tremelo.
Two for depth and three for the shoals.
Four for cacophony, and the rest for death.
Be aware when we all wish
with one breath. 

Myth and Magic

Living out here like it's gitmo,
It's a prison I'm in
I can't see forw'.
Snow drop lines
and a cube and a coat
and boots and gloves
and sunrise come down
they ask me where I am and I'm salty as fuck like
"fo sho."

I carry the Atlantic in everything I do and what,
yes you, I already put down the pistol at the duel
and cruelty is just another method to learn to
when stall
turn and burn like you stole something.
Get ripped and hold the plastic bag close like
you stole something.
Just another way in.

Another way outta gitmo.
Someone say something or don't.
Let's get more.
Sleeping in a jail and there's bail posted by me.
Toes in the sand picking up shells
watching the sunrise and not enough bass
to take me to the place I want to ride
inside this cell.  

It's fun.

Snow angels.

Two bars.

Number one.

Who Hates You

Shrugging off cinders.
Rise.  Rise!

Shrug cinders.
Open eyes.

A warfield.
A hatetank.

Capsule form.
One to know and three to grow.

A warfield.
One to know.

Skip a dose.
War, in red eyes.

30 Yards to the Fence At Hokr Landing Station

Barbed wire always looks like sun shower glitter
when the sun is out.

Authorized personnel only
dotting the links in pocket square efficiency
with a dribble of regularity on top
to nudge without threat of death
suggested in scream tones.

The birds have no problem,
landing, gripping, hopping to and fro.
I do.

Watch the sun swim through
and pour itself into the grass and clouds.
If I had carpet gloves, maybe?

Carpet hands.  Stone hands.
How little of a shit
am I for not mounting a raid?

Box cutter?  Bolt cutter?  Twin contrarotating saw!
Gas torch?  Spoon?  Fingernails?  Let's go underground!
Shoot the links out with hyper accuracy.
Secret agent man!  Double oh double oh.
A world wide tortoise towing a planet through space!

An aphid lands on my hand.
Walk quietly toward my wrist.
Sniff the sandwich crust still nibbled.

The weather's been alright lately.
The clouds interesting while taking lunch.
I've been told there are thing out there.

I don't buy it.
Everyone talks shit over the radio.
I don't buy it.

It always looks like new rain atop the fence.  Glitter.
If I walk away, people will die.  People I will not meet.

I believe it, mosquito.  I believe it, dandelion.  I believe it, clover.

At Hokr Landing, there is a fence that says
"authorized personnel only."

One of the best power stations the country has known.

I've seen one person working here, chimney swift.
Don't quote me on that.

Reversing sections of its grid
can turn her into a fusion device.

Have you seen a sunrise at midnight at the equator?

Leaving Hokr Station
never.
Winter would come early.  The sun would still rise, but bumble bee,
all of the flowers would die if she ran unattended

and poisoned the troposphere and winds
like an oroboros's icy sigh.

All of us sleeping in her snow,
far worse than a sunrise bathing our beds in its soul
while we dream of a beach and a sea in the fields
inside the fences
at Hokr Landing Station

Thread

I am not too strung out this time.
This time I will remember your face.
I will remember the exact clock.

Remember the phone ringing back.
The ghosts.  I am not strung out
this time.

Taking in a runaway.
Taking in a runaway.
A runaway.

Grinding up pavement.
I have lost my mind.
A dumb clipped runaway.

A deaf ship runaway.
Answer your phone.
Answer your phone.
Answer,
you runaway.

You runaway.
You god damn runaway.
Just a runaway.

Ran away
no
more.

I'll Come See You

Knock the slag off, with air piston jacked hammers.

Sitting on a crate opposite you
sitting on another,
printed in yellow block stencil
underneath, 98 mm high explosive x 75.

Underneath my ass 150 mm
aye pee
times thirty.  My feet dangling like our cigarette's
smoke mingling on a windless afternoon.

The front is 220 miles out
East as the crow flies.
We will have to refuel
over the mediterranean
and I am looking forward to seeing
how you do it.

Our conversation has already broken down
into objectives and way points with a little
bet mixed in to the after action report.

It is unfair
to where we land and to whom we mount against,
because they are not in on the game.

Us both waiting for the KA-CHUNK
of couplings leaving us in free fall
to where our bombardier's decided
we could do our best
against the populace.

A little cheers of coffee.
A little double check of flight suits.
Is the mic where it needs to be?
Trial fit the helmet again
after a quadruple check;
be sure the reticle is in line.
Double check my nail polish
before the glove comes on.
Smash shoulders and opposing tattoos,
before the top of the flight suit
is zipped on.

Finish the coffee, with pills in our mouths.
They will learn what we live for,
they will learn what is loud.

Our flights will be long.  I'll sleep inside the mech
along the way.  I don't know what happens to you
while we wait out the sandbox for play.
The thup thup thup thup thup thup
I can hear, because I never turn off
the audio input once I am strapped in.

For me, it is a very long long long grin
to watch you work.  Guilty. 

Watching, zone cleared against spear chuckers
who happened to have come into
a fushionable pile
and needed reckoning before
something terrible happened,
you break out a "grenade"
two tons strong and willing to-\
-/Christ, where is the pin?

Mech against mech.  Dust to dust.
Die another day.
Why can you not understand I do
feel the same?

Fire the shell in my mechanized palm
to fire it just that strong
and knock it four miles out
to change the time of day from moonlit to
high noon in a fire ball that could eat city blocks,
but she's in the air.  Fair.  But "what the f@#$?"

Overkill.........  underneath your left foot,
underneath your left pedal inside your cockpit and
underneath you left foot outside your cockpit
you are grinding human flesh into a paste.  And now is
the fucking time.
Do you remember being small?  I do.
You don't get conscripted by chance. 

You find detonators.  You stumble upon detonators.
Land mines   Mines.  I've never met a land mine like you.

I will know how to move forward
regardless after you.
Everyone talks big.  Yack, yack, yak yak yak, waaaan.

Cruiser.  Angry.  There was someone else here.  I will find them, sonavubitch.  Fail.  My fault.    Reset.

Reset. 

Reset.

Reset.

Clutch in.  Match revs. Time to the light.  Gas pedal.  Clutch out. 
Release brake.
Gas pedal down. 

Slowly.

Burnout.

Thank Head For the God Phones 2

My selector.
Whip the wheel.
Say hello and
fucking say hello.
All around and yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Jingle jangle.  Jingle jangle.
Just so you know.
Dreaming in daylight
with keys dangling.
Just so you know.
All around and yeah.
Do the numbers,
run the math,
held tight around the skull,
cleared path
with blaring sound to light the way
to forget the ghosts that prey and bray,
horse blinders cut them off at the pass,
if only
to make
why not
volume to eleven
nerve endings burning out
on a landslide to where it is impossible to confuse
the corners and faces and
ALL OF THE VOICES.
Snow the globe to ash.

Heartbreaker

No one told you to go home.
No one told you stand alone
projects end up drones
and made up slices out of cones,
squares come out and cover blown,
at some point, that point, all is owned,
and we get back to what is known.
Loving the air and the rose.
Loving the air and what is closed,
'cause every door is
what is honed
and seeing you, first times again
is knowing what is digging in
and the last thing that I need,
compiling experience, is a friend.

One Finger

Driving home, headlights spring new from the snow
compacted against the sides of homes.
Bright windows made brighter.
Hang your head
out of the driver side and scream
something unintelligible.

Dock.  And think about the several dozen times
could have's turned into did nots across the double yellow.

How fun would it be
to somersault and stick the landing.

How fun would it be
to make the outsides match the insides.

How hilarious would it be
to have spilled everything after keeping too much in hand.

Kick the emergency brake and shut off the headlights.
Over the river and through the woods,
touching fingertips to a stray checking the mailbox at stoop
in the dead heat of versus winter,
remember the feel of knuckles on brick
and cat nose on knuckles opposite hand
and it's cool snot.

Remember you are as snotty
as any silver spooned piece of garbage
and remember
there is a dimension you will never see
where you take care of them
too.

The Drums Die

On the corner
turn signals litter the curb
like fruit skins and jawbreakers
from kicked in quarter machines
where a three car pile up
made life interesting yesterday.

Watching traffic stop and go on our knees,
elbows at the edge of the rooftop,
the week ends
our words gone by
in the shade of the high rise next to
where we've pitched our soda cans.

Our headphones keep banging
while we nod

We Fought and Nothing Came of It

I put on your girlfriend's boots after you stormed.
Tore my pictures down and broke the frames.
She shuffled for the glass.  It's alright
is what I said in broken timed english
on every word
to test sobriety.

We both failed.  And laughed.  I believed
I could try again.  To fuck a pussy.  The stink
nearly forced vomit.  Your ghost
belching between each and every her word.
That I care.  Jump, skip, break to
hedge rows

and machine gun nests
and fifty cals and smooth bores
on tripods
behind
and tiger roar pillbox set to flat land

where everything is scene and set and orchestra.
She has very small feet.  I'll drop them off later.
I'll fix the frames and buy new glass.
The war is inside your heart, not mine.
I came for the show,
but I'll stay for the after action report.

Bite the Tongue Depressor

I never was okay with toothpicks.
Jilly jilly cuss cuss.  Mouth to tooth kind
of shards with billy billy bloof.

Blood. Mash the motorway.
Driving is still strange.  Drift across the
double yellows

and laughing all the way.
Meaning something escapes again,
but we still have

ripcords.

Sommer, Sommer, Squints

I told myself I would be taking better care
of myself n'at.  Getting around to it and what
needs fixed.  Heart break hotel, just tell me
what I fucked up on so no one
has to take the same road
you and I took.  The weather has been stupid
good of late.  I know I always take
too much time looking up instead of ahead.

Beach balls, baby!  I know.
Opportunities.  I wish we were both
pumping fists toward the sky.  Easy.

The Get Down (long drive with my baby)

Push rods, cam shafts, crank and belt,
hand wheel windows, shift knob, radio,
no deck.  Torn up seats, a little rust and
engine growl to keep company.
Solid steel rear views,
rain soaked iron rims,
one flame decal,
two would be sin.
Ride the white hair mammoth
out of time,
embrace hot vinyl
against skin.

Chrome littered
how long have we been datings.

I know you do you know mes.

Touching downs and ups
and whisper words greedy
both ways in tumble rough V8
and slip clutch English.
Howl to me and I will sing you back.  
Together we will mow them down.

Sand In the Water LP

Treble Clef

We douse and down little fish on a clip,
"you know your bait fish is doing
what it is supposed to do
when it breaks the water
getting away from predator fish"
He is full of wisdom and I wonder if
he is still holding my keys in his pocket.

Out fishing and I cannot understand 
how many times I keep coming up with
"I" to end sentences.  It is pain filled,
but we spark up a little
out of routine and routine will save your life
or shave it, but at least there is structure,
despite timely car accidents.

The night and the day 
we got into what drives 
a mother fucker away
and hit an impasse.
Picking up cans on faraway rocks
forgetting that my paws were there
with those rocks and moss
and tired of jumping from one to another

but how else am I supposed to get to still water?
A bobber?  Nigga, please!

Trying to remember which fish have teeth
and which ones do not.
Forgetting is part of the fun.
Good geusing is part of the fun
too th and nail. 

Sand In The Water

Drink to good health
and fuckable kids,
drink to yourself
and all that you id.

Drink to tomorrows
and toast to success
Drink to your sorrows
and your life a mess.

Take it on the chin,
its what Jesus would.
Take it as a win
the hangman's hood.

Drink until you die
enough to be alive.
Drink until the truth
turns out to be alright.

Drink for legacy,
toast to the moon.
Drink for Jesus's sake
I hear he's coming soon

Take it on the nines,
the tens, and the twelves.
Take it none in mind
let them pick up the pieces of your selves

There's sand in the water
there's sand in the water,
my baby was born still.
There's sand in the water
there's sand in the water,
on melancholy hill.



I Didn't Talk Her Down and I Never Wanted To

"A mirthless bastard"
was what she said
the night she fell asleep
and I killed her in her bed.

She slept and dreamed of everything
else we were not.
From her eyes night terrors streamed
even as they saw spots.

Fingers closed in prayer
behind her neck.
Teeth split her lips, bared
Her pulse thumb checked.

I strangled the life
right out of her veins.
No longer my wife,
us both in no pain.



Sand In The Water 2

Nothing tastes like coke anymore
at least since you stopped
talking to me.  I miss you some
days go by when I am trying to feel
the minutes before you stopped
talking to me.  It's crazy, right?
I know it is.  Rhetorical. I know
I am not what I used to be,
but neither are you.
Everyone says hello
sometimes.  Then again,
sometimes
no one does.



Dumb

The good old fashioned straight on take down
went the way of the rotary phone.

I've been checking your mail
to see if you still live there.

Chimney Swifts have been roosting
in your brick chimney

and I've been watching them loop
while popping sunflower seeds.

I can't remember the last we
didn't have to talk about stalking, meeting up faces to.

"...do you not have hobbies..."
yes.  "..that's a one word answer."

Yes.   I don't need to be a piece of anything
reel; I want to watch.

You're welcome.
Milk saucer please.



Film Study

I've been drinking way too much.
I know, baby.
I know, baby.
I've been drinking way too much.
I've been drinking way too much.
I've been drinking way too much.

Who am I apologizing too,
baby?  "The God damned angels
not me." Okay.

As long as you're good.  In my house I do not
give a shit.

Her lighter, sport skinned, hailing from New York,
what are you doing here in the sticks,
questions punted for later, is sticking out of her hip
pocket like a time pieced pocket watch unchained.
Easy to lose
yourself staring awestruck at a jean seam
and a rivet.

I do give a shit because I've been
drinking way too much
drinking way too much
drinking way too much

Did you see the leopard skin coating
on the slug clinging to the flower basket outside
on your way up to my place?
It has a big ol' hole in the side of it
to suck in air. My heart stopped
looking at it and I got all
classroom workshoppy sad.  Before I coughed
up blood.  I like you. A lot  Let me give you
disclaimers.

We have a lot in common and I respect
fresh fruit from my garden picked off the stems
so thick you could measure them with a thumb.
I respect bad conversations with neighbors who know
nothing about me and tell stories about their children
my age and it makes me feel okay
because at least I didn't fuck my grandma over.

You know what?
I know what weapons I was given,
lets talk about good grips and good finger protectors
for flesh cleaving metal because I
make up words for tools and
time is short.  The garden is gorgeous by the way.
We should take a walk some time
said the head to the fist.
Fingernails are nothing
until they eat up skin.



Frosty

after Cannibal Ox

Are you violent?
I know you.  I'm getting a little frosty myself.
Combustion is great
when does not wash away when the river is high.
Keep your eye up, heads up, dive
hard to rooftops and be glad
there is shelter.

Are those textbooks?  Usually.
Pick your battles and your addles and your nerves.
Put away what makes you dark and remember
life started with just a fucking spark,
an idea, and from there everything blew clear
out of hand
demand forcing a whole lot of whatevers
and when it actually gets cold
everyone shivers
like
bad bugs on skin
while everything gets thin enough that bones
come to surface, the same way that a blade
can be purposed.

I get a little frosty
but family brings me back.
I get a little frosty
but friends bring me back.   Stop.

Rage.  Stop again.



Cut Wrist

Have you ever had the bends?  Nitrogen poisoning?
I caught up with my ghosts and there was a stand off.
We talked about dinosaurs and grass that grows on the shoals
the same way grass will grow on dunes.
We talked about the man in the hat.
What it means to be inside a hat instead of wearing it.
What wearing it is.  I spat tears because my eyes were too dry.
We talked about the mission and how shitty the water tastes.

We went over the battle plans for taking down
the water processing plant and how to make bombs
with kettle barrels from the home improvement store
selling fertilizer like it was the only thing it could be
used for.  How good is that garden by the way?

There's sand in the water.  There's sand in the water!
It tastes magnificent.  Sea weed and all!  I held on to
a piece of sea glass for years,
because it had some of the Atlantic trapped inside it,
I used to tuck it under my pillow and dream
about nor' easters bringing me more.  Have you ever
had a bath so good
you fell asleep against
the porcelain and
woke up
surprised, sand in your mouth.  Another day
in your eyes?

This One Goes Out to the Sparrows and the Butchers

(this song is dedicated to every friend in low places)

You can kill a verse, but you can't kill the universe.
You can kill a time, but you can't kill it every way.
You can kill a few seconds, but you can't kill "everydays".
Sometimes people fuck with you
but you have to learn how to play.

Play the game better, a little better and they will say
he lived hard, but he lived well.  He had some moments
but they had theirs as well.  Time can tell
the better definition of what it all means,
sometimes years away makes it all seem
a little more accessible, a little more streamed

a little more balanced, a little less screamed.
After you're all there's a little more me
in the puddle on the floor and the moth
on the screen.  There's a little less rattle,
a little less shake, a little more roll,
a little more to take.

Memoirs in rhyme and verse a little less earthquake.
We had a time to sit down and it was not time to take.
Sometimes is the name of a song no one likes to sing.
If we ever did, I hoped we had a thing.
There was nothing, in talking, that I thought I couldn't bring.
But now I know that there were and there are

and now I know you better.
I know you, your score, and your scar.

Food Crush

I have been slow,
lying my way back to eating
food again.  Food again and spending
money on the good stuff.

Food poisoning has been a severe bitch
with sunken eyes and bone for fingertips.

The money has gone,
the weight with it.
The savings, think of the savings!

My heart is broken
in choice.  I don't want to throw up anymore.
I want to be just like you.  I want burgers
on Sunday and meat loaf on Wednesday.
I want thick as fuck sweet onions,
sour cream for days, scorched beef sides
on Tuesday and pan lickings on Saturday.

Food again, food again! But it's been too long
and I am throwing up again.
What is this shit?  What happened
to the cups of hot water
I used to know?

I am so tired.  I wish I could sleep on the skin of an apple.