from my window the light reflected
off the pavement makes the streets
look covered in snow

but they are not covered in snow

and it could look like
alot of other things
too
but it would be none
of those things either

it’s october and it there
hasn’t been a drop of snow

and when my perspective shifts
my perception will change
and i will step out onto the
dry streets and remark
“why there isn’t any
snow out here
at all.”

I have half a mind to throttle you
and dash your soul against the sharp stones
at the base of the bluff
that overlooks a vast expanse of ice and sea

and even if you were only cold an instant
I would be happy

and even if you drowned just  a little bit
I would cry these tears of joy
that I’ve been saving all this time
for a special occasion

when you sent the message
that you were moving at first
i didn’t care and i thought
it might be a good thing for
you and for your life and stuff
but then i thought about the
times we had and feel really sorry
that i didn’t talk to you more
because you are pretty cool
i’d go to a show with you
and let you hold my phone
and have my back when things
go crazy
and that’s the kind of friend i want
and that’s the kind of friend
i should ask to stay
when they tell me they’re going
to move out.

i saw u drwning but
didnt know y so
just left

i wuld rathr go
drinking
than b home w/ u

& sumtimes i dremt
abt letting go
abt suicide

but we had luv

but it destroyed
us

plz dont frgt
y we broke up

I am a creature under duress
from the atmosphere
and from the biting vermin
and prowling wolves
and so forth
and we all are

Sometimes when I lay down at night
I hurt with no definition of terms;
an un-named throb or forgotten bruise
or a rash from the bite of a sneaking tick

Sometimes I am afraid that my ears
will never stop ringing.
Sometimes I rub my temples too hard
because even though it hurts now
I’m sure it will help in the end

Most nights, though, I breathe our
atmosphere, and relish in the duress
of it all

seems a while since i’ve graced
these halls and ran my finger
across what was once white and
free from graffiti. art.

seems forever since i paced around
surrounded by friends and enjoying
company in what now seems like visiting
your elementary school at night time
for a play or some other odd event
that was never meant to take up the halls
of an institution so big. so public.

but here i am.

There was more than once
that I tried to picture that guitar amplifier
with the thick carpet and reindstone studs
lined up so perfect. I never quite could.

Dad still has that old painted Gibson.
He brought it back from the dead.
It plays just like it should, but the pickup
still isn’t quite right. That’s okay, though.
The paintjob still looks wonderful.

Dad says that you visited that night,
and I understand that you couldn’t stay long.
We’ve all got places we’ve got to be,
and I think you understand that,
too.

Either way, I’ll play the next one for you.

more starfish than stardust, I’m
all limb and no magic,
bottom oceaned away from the moon.
even near the shore
I am more
sunken brig than fleet,
moored, now, and cleaning
off seamonkey cobwebs from
my stern,
with its eyebrows furrowed.
Encompassed, I face east
and play west on soft bells
just amber enough to hint
at stargazing, but
only secretly, and my
telescope is full of
fish anyways, so I
seasalt more brilliant
than those murky depths
and grasp at straw moons
that are already ablaze.
And here I am.
with all this water
but not a ship in sight
and so many miles away.

And then there are all those people
that come and go and kick and claw
for no real purpose but to agitate
and here you are with bruised shins
and scratched shoulders

You’ve been running a fever for
probably years, I would imagine,
but the people with the thermometers
are busy checking the boil on their
latest batches of poison
so you soldier on with that fire
burning out of your forehead*

(*fires, mind you, are not so bad
mostly; they warm the heart that
powers the spirit that drives the soul,
but it’s a bit like your carburetor
is putting the fuel in the wrong place,
and I’m sure you know all about that)

Despite it all, you do pretty well.
You cultivated your garden and you
made your spices and I wish that that
had been enough to make you better.
You perform movements now and again
and it moves you, too, even if no-
body is looking

You write. It is excellent.

As for me, I don’t have much for you
in the way of cure. I am no alchemist,
nor a nurse’s aid,
nor a real live Pharmacognosist.
I even put too much sugar in the tea
most times

I can wrap a bandage, though, and I
can get you cold water almost always.
I can even lay still, now and then,
just long enough for that throbbing
in your head to almost go away.

And I’ll do all of that,
just as much as you need me to.

I woke up this morning, to the light shining through my curtains.

The sun’s fresh beams blinding as my eyes first opened.

My waking thoughts racing,

turning corners folding back in on itself

all reflecting the water in the bay.

Crystal clear, cold and deep.

I go back to that place.

With unnerving clarity, I remember

it all.

and tears from the bay come rolling.

We held hands in this place

and dared tomorrow to come.

And it did.

And it swept us out into the sea.