For Tara
There are nights that hold
a handful of seconds,
brief like breathing out,
during which
the stars line up perfectly
to make monkey bars from you
to me. Know this:
If it ever lasts longer
than my eyes can stay open,
you can be sure,
I’ve been training for this voyage a long time.
I’m going to ride the sky to you.
For Tara
Before you go,
and taste the world outside of
the image of the home I’m building you,
Let me memorize your breath.
Make it cling to my lungs so tight
you teach my body to rise and fall
at the same rate as yours.
There will be bitter nights
that we cannot fall asleep wrapped in
each other
(that is the danger of a comet falling
in love with the moon)
so in this moment
let me memorize you
Let me burn your light in to my eyes
so hard
I see your outline every time
I close them. Bite down
on my shoulder so deep
the indents are still there
for you to kiss better two months from now
Shatter my bones
tear out my hair
Leave me scared with the shape
of your fingers on the back of my palm.
When I am gone
I will name every blank page after you
even before I set down my pen.
I will trace the same circles on my arms
that you do
when we sit together.
I will feel the enormous weight
of the memory of your hands on my back and
I will have memorized your breath so perfectly
I can fall in to it each time I fall asleep.
And wake up thinking of you.
For Tara
My hands are somehow rougher
than I expected them to be when I
was young and
scared of my grandfather’s
calloused fingers. I did not foresee mine
getting
splashed with scars I cannot trace that
race from pointer
to the thumb; and flecked
with paint stains
that grow, only
grow, over
the perpetual layer of
long days my fingers trace
through yours. Your hands
play songs through mine when
my joints ache too hard
to percussion themselves off
your linen shoulder. Your hands
smooth my scars out. Iron them
back into accidents, and then
away completely.
You wash the long days off me.
You turn my trembling cacophony
percussion fingers into
piano keys.
You take my paint stains
and give them shape
and stories; I can’t name them
“stain” anymore
when you kiss them.
You have made an art form
out of sculpting
my reddened knuckles
my calloused palms into
the same hands my
grandfather once used
to build his wife a home.
You’ve sculpted a man
out of these hands with
your own.
For Tara
I am moss
growing slowly
and climbing up
rocks at catatonic
crawl. You are lightning
Splitting the ground with
proud movements. I’ve
always been ashamed
of the moments
when my subtle
is too much but
When you touch me
I explode to grow into
the whole forest. This
is like a million years
of sunlight
condensed in to a single second
like a magnifying glass airplane
right over me
like the ground is covered
in broken bottles
refracting and acting like diamonds
I’ve been
rough.
I’ve been the moss
and the rock
I’ve been sand on the bottom of a lake
been driftwood
been dead leaf been
mulch
It’s never been like this. Listen
there’s never been a painting
like
your light
through my leaves. Please
keep
shining. That’s
all I need to
Stop
being moss
To start
climbing up
It’s never been like this
Trees were never ladders until
I had somewhere to meet you between
the canopy
and the sun. I’m
running up now
for the first time
and this time
It’s permanent, so
keep your light on me. Please
Listen
I never did know eyes could glisten like
yours. Like
the whole sky
in half an inch
I used to be moss
but you
the sun and moon and
the in between
have made me
Greener
than I thought I could be
You
have realized
the forest inside of me.
For Tara
When I have finally peeled myself
off your back
And slip my arms from
under yours and
back in to shirt sleeves
And prepare myself
for the impossible task
of leaving you
In those moments
while my body wakes up and remembers:
it did function without you before and
can again
It is then
you can hear the breath sucked in
by the space between us
which we have spent the night
smothering. Space which,
as I push my feet into their shoes,
balloons outward; between
me and you.
So I stop moving
and inhale what is left of
our breath
And stain my eyes with
your smile
And turn the doorknob
which always feels like ice
Look, I’ve memorized
the feeling of your hand in mine
Though there are mornings
when I will have to leave you early
It will never mean goodbye.
For Tara
Before you,
and before this,
I was a wool sock
full of lead bricks
in a clenched fist
I was
stone.
My favorite books;
those love stories whose quotes
I had once etched into my
eyelids
had moved
to the bottom of the stack
had
slipped under the carpet
my eyelids
were erased
and replacing these quotes
were notes to myself
saying
Keep these lids closed.
You can’t miss what you pretend
you’ve never seen.
So I spent one month
this past summer
sleeping on the floor
And I always locked the door
and I never bought a bed
Instead
I focused on
turning myself in to bread
With the hope
that enough people could
pull pieces from me
as to make me feel needed
I needed that.
Meanwhile
I laughed
as I gracefully slipped in to cynicism
like a robe made of glass
It’s a lot easier to
say you may never fall asleep
beside anything but the wall
if while you do, you laugh. I
wish you knew
how few things I believed in
before I believed in you.
But I could already feel
these fists unclench
the night we met
I changed my pillow cases.
I didn’t need to erase
my eyelids again. They’re
wide open now
I can only barely remember
what they once said.
The robes I wore
are burnt and
forgotten
The first time I got dressed
after meeting you
it was all linen. Soft
like I had forgotten how to know.
I was writing poems to
pray that you existed
before I ever knew you or
knew this
I knew I was looking for your eyes against mine.
I just didn’t know
what they would look like.
And I don’t believe in resurrection
but I do believe in redemption
and you pulled out of me
the man who needed to be saved.
So I renamed love after you
It’s a small thankfulness
for reminding me
that it existed.
For Tara
A man once climbed
the world’s tallest mountain
just to prove
that the air there did not
smell like his love’s perfume.
When he got to the top
he realized
it does not work that way.
The whole mountains itself
looked like her smiling face.
For Tara
In first grade
Everyone drew the sun
as a big yellow cookie with
orange triangle arms.
I picked so many fights
over how incorrect that was.
But I have the same problem
when trying to describe love
My love
wears the face of worry
Which manifests as
I hear your voice around
every corner
and see your face
in places I know you are not
My butterflies are cannonballs
playing hopscotch in my stomach
I swallow rocks
sometimes
to keep all this emotion
down.
And how
many pages were torn
for me to get this book tongued
for me to get this binding spine
This is a true story
of a young man who loved
so hard
he could quote Shakespeare at you
and mean it.
There comes a time
when my words are not enough.
Some days I lick newspaper
and eat sentences right out
of my close friends’ mouths
just
to make use
and make language
like paint
I mix words
just to make sense. You
send my senses
to the base of my stomach. You
are the penny in my dryer.
I would have to
swallow rocks
if I ever thought
I wanted quiet.
If I ever wanted to quell the riot
you’ve got going
in my body. I’m
not blinking so much
to shut
you out
That’s my eyes
fighting to give you a
standing ovation.
If I turn sideways
I’m not looking at anyone else
that’s my ears trying to hear you
loud enough
That when you’ve gone away
I can still hit replay
But I’ve got to be careful of
what my mouth does. Listen
you should know this
I have spoken love
so hard
I might have broken love
before
This is a warning:
I am typewriter fingered
and I talk
a lot
I know you know this.
If you notice
that I repeat myself
I apologize
in advance
Sometimes my heart beats quicker
than my mouth can move
So when I run out of ways to say “love”
please
don’t think that means anything about you
I’m trying to teach myself silence
I’m not great at it
I know you know that too.
If I ever get it right
it’s just practice
I still have the world to say to you.
And when I get it wrong,
on the days
that you want
to tell me
to shut up
and I keep name-dropping “love”
That’s because
I stopped eating those rocks.
I want to feel this.
In first grade
I was asked to describe the sun.
So I stared directly at it
And when my teacher asked what it looked like
I said ouch
It’s really bright
I can’t see anything right now
Talking about love
or you
is the same thing
Blinding in all your bright
I still don’t ever miss the night
For Tara
Beauty exists
under blankets. This
moment
is punctuated
by bare skin.
The sun peaked in
this morning
and found us
still talking
about
our childhoods.
Every word
actually meant
love.
And when
I actually said
“love,”
that meant
“You are the reason the sun rises each day.”
For Tara
We don’t have
tin cans or string
Sometimes
we don’t even
know how to speak.
Still
there is something
connecting
the two of us
Causing constant
revolutions
around each other
You speak to me
before either of us
ever know it
I’m
tied to something
that’s tied to you
and nothing
can cut through this
Even when the tin cans
are rocks. And
the string stretches for miles
Just pick up.
I am always
on the other side
For Tara
If these arms
were yarn
I would unravel them
just to wrap them around you
that much tighter
If my poems were stars
I would rearrange them nightly
Just so you
would always have something new to point to
and say
“That,
That is all mine”
I want to dedicate other people’s books to you
I want to rename time
after you
so when I wear a watch
I can say
“I’ve always got
the time”
The small of your back is the island
that my shipwrecked hands
have been swimming to find.
It’s been years
in the ocean
To be honest
I stopped believing in land
for a long time.
So I’m sorry if I
still carry
wilderness, This
body
is still a little bit bark
But you
are the artist who
I’ve been praying
would come carve poems
into me.
I’ve never been a door before
but if I were
my hinges would creak out
your name.
I’m wide open now
This key
is all yours and
The arch way is just high enough
to echo
each time you speak. To be honest,
I thought I was a wall
It turns out it isn’t that at all
I’m four
walls
With windows and doors
and I am also hardwood floor
But you
are the all important roof
that makes me
a home
There is life
in here now
The bark’s broken
right open
I am green leaves in spring
taller than Manhattan
I am
one
big nest
I am twigs from all over
But you gathered them.
And I could only become
a tree
I could only believe in
an excess of life in this vessel
I’m exhaling branches
Because you are the sun
For Tara.
Always.
I heard the ice cream truck
for the first time since October
Today.
The birds are blasting past my window
Claiming this sky
as theirs
Not mine
Little do they know I too
can sometimes fly.
Like today
when I heard the ice cream truck
for the first time.
And wondered if the wind wasn’t built
for the wind chimes
And the sun doesn’t shine
just to reflect off your eyes. You
dandelion.
I’ve been seeing you in
everything.
It’s like ice fishing
Naked
Without a pole
Diving into the freezing ocean
And gasping for breath at the hole
I thought you were all water
and I was all cold. No,
we are both
one huge expanse of ice
And isn’t it nice
to be part of something so clear
So close to glass, but
so much more alive. Like
the freezing ocean
you take my breath away
every time.
For T.
It was one thirty
and I had just become sidewalk
You were walking away
and the pavement and I became
equally unable to move
I should have chased after you
Instead
I went to my bed
And wrote myself a note
which I sewed inside my pillow
It said
Do not ever
let her go.
For T.
All of this light
seems to be coming
right from the inside of the moon
and reflecting off you. And I
have for such a long time
been the horizon. I still
never knew
I could feel this bright.
For T.
Maybe
You’re the eye
And I’m the storm.
Or
I’m the mountain
And you’re the peek,
It snow mater.
Right now
It’s 50 degrees out
At night, and
In winter.
The moon is shining brighter than I’ve ever seen
And you say I’ve just made you smile.
If anything exists outside of this
Right now
I don’t need to know.
For T.
My heart has been beating
two times faster than usual
for the past week.
I sometimes think
I have many hearts, Battling
each other and logic
for control of my affection
They all
live in my chest, Although
often take turns getting caught in
my throat, Or
sending subtle impulses
to the wrong hands
at the wrong times.
Sometimes each one takes control
of different eyes at once
Which is why my horizons
are now painted in water color
With too much water
And an excess of color
I often think the whole world is dripping
down on me. I often move
as if I’m sloshing through a foot of water
It’s at these times you can tell
that my many hearts are all
beating at
different paces
Playing
single notes of the xylophone
in a cacophony that expresses itself
through me
as general confusion. Some days
I have to remind myself to breathe
and write down all the million thoughts
barreling through me on my mattress
so I stop losing track of
myself, Starting
the moment I wake up. My train
has been moving fast enough these days
and, lady,
you’re throwing grease on the wheels and
conducting electricity through me
You should know
I’ve been thrown off this train before
And, goddamn if it didn’t hurt
Every single time
I didn’t stop getting back on
I hold a one way ticket
to somewhere these poems can’t describe yet
But I’m riding this out
There’s always room for more passengers
I don’t know at what expense
For either of us
I’m pretty sure
I can survive being thrown off a couple times more
This might be the right kind of electricity
There are moments, though they are rare,
in which my million hearts
beat at the same time
I’m always looking for harmony
It might
just exist
In the other seat
On the leap day
Of the leap year
I step out
the front door
while concurrently
Asserting my
non-existence (daringly[?])
on the bed. On the
leap
Day,
(My first in four years)
I con all my conclusions
And dissolve my disillusions
in eye widened awe
of the rain
under
the awning
(on leap days and[/or] Long Island
it rains sideways)
today is broken into moments of
blinding amazement at
something so simple as
exhaling
and how close it is to whistling
Yes,
we all breath music
We naturally harmonize
on Leap Days, we
Don’t.
Along with the gained wild child-hood
of this day
I’ve also lost a basic understanding of
sounds and shapes
And have found my slouch
pulling me
earthwards
to Crawl again.
Dazed.
On the Leap Day
I don’t understand
Anything.
Which lends itself to
believing in magic
But unfortunately flips
the horizon. I’m
upside down now
I’m caught in the ocean
And all my answers have become
Shrimp.
Which are very hard to find when
it’s just you in the ocean.
On a leap day. Or
any-
When I become five years old
When everything has new meaning
but also
No meaning.
At all.
for E, T, C, etc, etc, etc, etc
I fell in love with
seven women
this week. They
all
had beautiful eyes.
Ranging from the color
of the inside of a walnut
to the face clouds make
right before it rains
The first wore
grey tights
The second told me
she wasn’t sure if she believed
in god. The third
was too tired
to make it up the subway stairs
They all
had beautiful eyes
Because they never asked
why I was dripping
I never mentioned that my eyes
are slow molasses
When I told one that hers
looked just like a robin’s egg
She told me mine reminded her of
a leaf
But only after it had fallen to the ground
She didn’t mention if that meant they were delicate
Or dead
I regret
Not having asked to dance with any of them
Particularly
Because I imagine they all would have been
spectacular at it
Though I am glad none of them
Mentioned
My feet impaled to the ground
Or my moth hands
flitting around
theirs
The fourth
I never talked to
The fifth
Told me she preferred silence. The sixth
I wrote letters for
and mailed only half. They all
had
Beautiful Eyes. Mine
are wood
chips.
The seventh knew this and
knew what I was
doing. She
left a note to me on the beach.
The ocean ate all of it
but her name
for E.
I am removing
this bucket
And pulling up pieces of rope
My fingers are clogged faucets
That drip
love thoughts
As a precursor to my whole body melting
And I don’t know why it feels so good
To unbury the buckets I’ve swallowed
But in their place
There’s room for so much
more
And I am so much water
And so much love
And when I lowered these buckets
down they were too. Now
they are rusted tin
Removing them
Does not disturb the water
Just the poison. We
will still share
a river.
Always
For Max
If such a foolish thing as love exists
It has hidden itself in a deli
And has slyly winked at only me
While simultaneously being the most explosively obnoxious force
two people can muster
Ordering a pastrami sandwhich
has never looked so much slow dancing
And in case you two are wondering, No
this is not an appropriate place to slow dance
But instead of making aliens of yourselves
you’ve somehow hung lanterns from fluorescent light fixtures
And turned this mess
into a banquet hall
I swear
The waiter yelling at me in Spanish is wearing a tuxedo right now
And this
This might be what love looks like
Like
A child who eats only with his hands
makes a mess of everything
and crudely draws dogs on the walls with his fingers and ketchup
And just because he forgets to draw tails
Doesn’t mean they aren’t dogs
This love
doesn’t care about details
Not tonight
Not details like
The old man next to you in line
Or the worried woman in front of you
Or the lollipop sucking cashier behind the counter
And I’m astounded
at how much more beautiful all of these people look in your light
Tonight
Don’t be afraid to sing along with the subway music
This song is yours
The next one will be too
So will the silence
And the sound of the wheels on the train tracks
Tonight
If I could take a sip
Of the single breath that exists between your hands
I’d have a lot less questions
No more answers
(I know those exist in my third and fourth palms)
But
A lot less questions
Get your grease off my wheels,
Woman.
I’m moving fast enough as is
If you were to ask him about his port-wine stain
He would tell you it was a burn
And if you were to ask him how he got that burn
He would tell you he was a hero in his hometown
And if you inquired further
He would tell you his hometown
Was nestled in the crevice between two large breasted mountains
And then
he would not be lying
He was breastfeed
And his mother’s name means “Queen”
And she always taught him she was as much
If you watch him in the rain
And notice that it looks like he’s shaking fire off his hands
He’ll tell you he was only dancing
Don’t believe him
He does set fire to his arms sometimes
Especially when it’s raining
If only to see if he can defy the clouds long enough
To mark his skin just a little
His mother always taught him she was a queen
And so he touches women so delicately
They never notice until he’s painted flowers
All over them
Then he burns his arms
So they’ll tend to him
And pay attention more to those marks
Than his port-wine stain
Or the weeds he’s watering on their backs
If you take him back to bed
Do not comment
On his port wine stain
Always thank him
For the weeds on your back
Even as those tendrils tangle
Tell him
He’s getting things right
Don’t say “for once
Do not say
“for once”
When you finally decide to remove the weeds from your back
Do not do it with a rake
Do not attack them
Do not mistake them for malicious
Think of them as dandelions
Sometimes
The beauty just spreads too quickly
If you take him to bed after removing the weeds
You’ve made a mistake
He will notice
And it will break him
Then he will go out into the rain
Without
Setting fire to his arms
Instead
He will notice puddles for the first time
And reflections
And his port wine stain
You hopefully asked
“is it snowing?”
I too hastily responded
“yea”
I didn’t say
How much I wanted to kiss you
So it’s a little past midnight
Right?
And I’m on winter’s stoop
Listening to 4 attractive women
Asking me to write poetry about them
(they tell me they are muses)
And although, Yes
It is more or less in jest
I’m going to take this moment
To pretend I am Mick Jagger’s
lips and hips
Gyrating unendingly and
Demanding to be kissed
Every body
Needs a moment like this. I
Bottled my drunken rock star dreams
A long time ago
So, honey
If you need poetry written about you
Just ask me slowly
You know
I’ve written a million poems
About brown eyes, and long necks
And soft hands
All in secret journals that
I’ve swallowed whole so
When somebody
asks me
to write them a poem
I have a hard time saying no
And this
Is my poets poem
The one moment I’m going
To revel in knowing
That last night four women
Wanted me to write poetry
About them
Goddamn that’s something this kid
Never expected
That Mick Jagger moment
And yes it was jesting
But for five brief seconds
I let myself pretend
Again
That this stick is a microphone
And this dirt is a stage
And that tree is a stadium
And the leaves are all people
Watching me
Just watching me
And wanting poems about them
For D.M.T.
The moon is battering my blinds tonight
Bright like
The sun’s only wife. Making
consummation
with the east only because
No One
Is watching
I was seventeen
You always said your best friend
Was
an “ethereal beauty”
I guess I forgot to tell you
You were too
There are days I’m startled by the other person in the room
Especially
When it’s late at night
And I’m the only one here
And I forgot to turn the heat on
Again
So in an effort to make a more hospitable environment
Today I tried
Hacking and burning the island inside myself
Because, yes
I am made of that much overgrowth and accumulated
Mess and the undertoe in my rivers
Will suck
you
down
No these rapids don’t roar
They hush
Everything
Only the water on the rocks
Is audible
And only when I am waist deep in it
It whispers to me
Listen
You cannot spend any more time hanging around your own hazes
That silhouette you picture is not here
But please do not define emptiness by its shape
Though you have holes
You are still holy
But I’ve spent too much time corking shut
My silences
So I don’t listen to the river
Even under water
Even when the world is frozen over
I reverberate in the throat just enough
To steadily hum out the truth I
Already feel pressing like actual thumbs
In my ears
I play band saws
So I don’t hear the river
In those moments when it tells me
That silence
Might not mean emptiness
We are all holy
And so holy enough
Even though I don’t want to hear that
Right now
I’d lay down
Next to any one
Who could sing over that in her sleep
Who could teach my hands
The violin curve of a swan long neck
My grasshopper music needs accompaniment
But without that kind of magic in my fingers
I just try to catch reflections as if
I might bounce them out my throat as lullabies
And float them into
The cracks in my walls
When the river gets too loud again
It is shocking
How many electric prayers I’ve spat to stop it
But pressing my tongue up against electrical sockets
Can only get me
So far
Please
I’m just looking for someone to tether myself to
I’m just looking for someone who’s weather proof. You
Need to board up my panes
Before the river
Rises over my head
Then I will not be able to avoid
Knowing
We are all holy
Even as individuals
But I don’t want to forget you yet
I took my love, and I spoke it
And I broke it into threes
To the one that was
To the one that wasn’t
To the one that will never be
The first took my heart, and broke it
The second I just let be
The third, I heard, never thought of the word
No she never thought of me
There are days I am a giant in this skin
Lost in a vessel I only some times have control over
There is a marble in this swimming pool
Trying to inflate itself to fit all this space
But more of me is water than glass
I am locked inside of this brazen bull
And yes, I get too warm sometimes
But behind all my gilded gold and horns
I forget I am bull and the man inside
I am Minotaur
Call me Minotaur
Never think I’m anything but bull and man
I am rock and glass
I am earth and wind
And I sometimes also claim to be the
Labyrinth
Not lost
I am many corridored
Not horned
But I do roar
So I pick up tiny cups with hands
Too large
Trembling mountains into desktops
Tapping holes in walls
Breaking feet with every step
Flailing bullet limbs
No you’ll never see me dancing
I break things
I break things
And I don’t clean up
And I break my back down
To hide my giant shoulders
Because you always look small
And your hands look soft
And I want to be the marble
Not the swimming pool
And curl tuck myself behind your right ear
I want to live there
Whispering my labyrinth truth to you
And figuring out how I can be soft too
Soft like
The snow on mountain tops peeking over my shoulder
The slope of your neck when it first kisses bone
The sun that rises over you
Or the hawks circling me
But the truth is
If my hand was a mountain
I would crush you
So I pull my hand back
And I never touch you
Because most days I fear
Being in this bull
And if my arm snaps back and I crack you
If my roar makes you shiver in your skin
Know I only ever meant to make myself so small
You could wear me like pearl
You could curl tuck me behind your right ear
I could roll down
Your body
With no fear of breaking you
Because some days
This body is all boulders
And goddamn do your hands look soft
It is 8 oclock this morning
And we are chasing 7:30 just to see you
dragging our dirty hubcaps against this long road
And sparking poetry fragments.
Often yours, sometimes ours
Many times unspoken
These spokes wont stop turning
Until North Carolina hits us
like a sack of books in the face
But to cross every bridge back home
Carrying your signature in our pages
Is the shot of adrenaline we’re banking on
So please keep your eyes open
For three bed burning broken bodies
Bursting out of New York like
700 miles worth of bad ideas
Nicotine
And the resilience to not nod off
That only comes from knowing right now
This highway was made in the hope that someday
Three kids would take it
Just to hear poetry in North Carolina
So I’m first time marveling
At the solid brick buildings that pull
Hills out of forests
And the broken down barns that still manage
To conquer
The emptiness surrounding them
Despite the infestation of fast food rest stops
This road is stupidly beautiful
And, Buddy, I’m quoting you in every state
And finding new meaning in everything
Inside and out of your poems
