this is how you live your life in two days

Crystal salt shaken
and falling
through the air
glistening.

The smooth soft curve
of your breast
against me,
your shirt the only wall.

Wet hair and the smell
of flowers on you,
shadows waning,
a pink sunrise erupting from behind the distant volcano.

My arms around you.
My face taut and unknowing.
Weightlessness and gravity pitched in endless war.

Salt and sand
to stone.

William

William

You picked at the corner of the broken tile

on the steps of a pink and chartreuse vaudevillian hell

we called a job.

 

I wrenched my fingers and told you of my

                                                                                    treachery.

Days later you carried a box of things

to my car and then moved to the city

to be a roady pounding pills and Fireball

to pass out in a dank

dark room over some

random garage

in chaos and emptiness.

 

But the noise was too much (I knew it would be)

and you backtracked

to the sticks with your Mom,

the chickens.

Your sister found you

silent,

cold,

                                                                     A suspended form

swinging slow orbits

in the glancing light

of a setting sun,

drooping down, down,

towards this giant Earth

and all Its horrible gravity.

Focus

The upturned edge
of your crooked 
half smile 
is the soft sound
of water falling
so close,
a tiny spear of sunlight.

Your face
by the sea
still speaks
in muted
nevermores

of a time
when we both


ignored everything

except our shared

weightlessness.

Scissors

I am both singular and plural,
unable to create without violence–

without which nothing is ever truly
born. Where there was nothing before,

there is now a silhouette or multiples of them,

dolls strung together, connected

by touching limbs. Children and adults alike

use me: to make no two snowflakes ever alike,
or to separate the unnecessary parts.

My glinting steel is always seeking–
Not for what is, but what is possible.

Mountains

Your mountains are ghosts
cobbled from your Mother’s pain,
spilled forth from a gleaming rend

in a cascade of thistle down,
falling atop a shapeless form:
Waterfalls of unending weight.

And you slept there,
inside a coiled snake,
your hands like knives.

For the blink of an eye,
you breathe through her body,
her agony unfurling into a blossom,

Awakened. You crawled along
twisted gullies and caverns,
crimson bent and stained full–

too hard now; now too soft–
only to be released, finally, to rest
amid an awful, blanched cacophony.

This wash of noise and light
is a wicker basket of simple truths.
Love is only a rough hewn stone.