and coffee at three
to keep me up till two.

They don’t check every bag on the outbound buses
Or log their miles in their taxi cabs.

The folks on the street smile
Most times
And everyone is happy enough
cash and carry and all.
Even when funds are a bit short.

And even though the water runs different
it feels wet just the same.
Doesn’t it?
It’s just as wet as water ought to be

Sometimes I shouldn’t know that your boyfriend is gone
and maybe it’s a bit quick to let the world know
that you’re ‘on the prowl’ but I guess
if that’s the best bet to get some easy action, why
I hope the type of boy you like starts flocking
in your direction

Don’t tell me about it now, though, Ms. Blaze.
I’m sure you’ll revise your documents in the morning

But then the truth comes out:

“Signed this loan
(can’t afford it)
bought this car
(cant afford that)
bounced this cheque
(to cover the car)
stole this jacket
(I was cold)
drove on a suspended license and told the officer I was my brother during a routine traffic stop
(well, that’s sort of that,
isn’t it?)”

And I just don’t think
I can take it any more.

No,

I think I’m going to start
a pawn shop.

That way, I
may have to listen,
but I don’t have to care.

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.

a horn is played by
a person and that
person is just like you

and people don’t follow
other people around
waiting for important moments
to emphasise
with horns

there won’t be any
horns for you
ever

no matter what happens

no matter if you hear them

no matter what you’re doing

they won’t be there.

a reminder i could have used
just about any other tuesday.

but then again, such flares
are specific to such days.

And you went on for hours.
Should you go back to your room?
No, just as long as
you remember that reality is
what it is

Now is when I should talk
to Rob, though

He’s still just
so full of shit.

I bit, my top teeth sticking
into the apple’s density
pulled away, taking a chunk with me
and smiled through a slurp

He lifted the apple to his mouth
crunching over the teeth-pocked bite
my mouth had left
erasing my mark in a giant’s footprint

I listened the sound apples made
when he ate them,
cracking apart like glacier ice
with each of his crater-sized bites

How many apples do you think are in the world?
he chewed thoughtfully, invited another bite
I shook my head
and he took another

Well, he said, swallowing, that depends
he chomped and gulped
depends on what? I asked
he nibbled around the edges

Depends on what? I asked again
he offered me the last bite
shrugged when I said no and said
it depended on when we finished this apple

He flicked the browned core into the yard
and laughed rising from the back steps
he said, so when you find the total
remember that now it’s one less

AND YOUR LIFE MUST HAVE STICKING
POWER

BUT YOU’VE LOST IT ALREADY

UNDER THE PRETENSE THAT

YOU MUST EMPHASIZE ANY THING
AT ALL.

from youth
till now
and furthermore
my friend
my pants will
ever be

and that love will be demonstrated in a once-each-month ritual cleansing process less religious than one might think, though certainly not lacking ritualistic practice. there will be a soak, a wash, a rinse, and tumble dry cycle — religiously, almost as if by machine.

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.

His brilliant cloths were radiant indeed
and would have fought
the sun’s brilliance
in fairer weather.
But he was no fighter,
nor killer nor
prophet of doom; his words
were soft and pleasant:

I was not going to die,
he said.

My world is not done spinning.

studying his face as
he concentrated beyond the windshield

the stubble on middle-aged skin
sprouting from his chin and upper-lip

wondering what it would be like
to have stubble and to shave

seeing his eyes alternating from
road to rearview to sideview

and to my mother as if she
were a mirror to be supervised

I watched as every so often
his right hand slipped across the console

nudging her downturned palm
shyly with his pointer finger

until she folded her fingers in his
and they both smiled

a smile like this was the reason
we took long road trips

a front seat secret
that parents keep to themselves

I frowned at the orange symbols
glowing on the dashboard

trying to figure out the special
meaning that each one had

but most of all the speedometer
over the white numbering of sixty-five

avoiding many other options nearby
its needle vibrating steadily in place

losing or gaining a mile at most
but never more than that

I asked my father how
he got it to stay so still

he looked at the speedometer
looked in the rearview mirror at me

saying that you learn by driving a lot
and that he done a lot of driving

he smiled at my mother again
and below his foot rested on the gas pedal

I thought about what it would be like
to have done that much driving

a select few
the more bold took big breaths before
going under
the force propelling us further that our cupped hands often could
and more likely than not
into a collision of legs
and toenails and furious bubbles
like aquatic insects zipping over chlorine slick skin
burning inside our noses

when the water was whisking faster
than we could push
waves sloshing over the sides
hiccupping relentlessly into the drain
the circle finding its other end
someone inevitably yelled switch
and we would

the pressure mounting onto our backs
dividing its way around
our browned arms and bleached hairs
fanning out
cutting the water like a ship’s bow
on expedition to discover unknown continents

and with aching appendages we fought against the tides
as if our lives depended on it
—and made up a heroic story as to why they did—
until the whirlpool’s water changed direction
as if it had always been moving that way

sure things would be clearer,
cleaner, and less work to keep
mold-free.
but shutting out the chaos
just sounds so damn boring.

We slept for just about an hour
and rested for an hour more
and in between fits of consciousness
you swore that you’d be alright
once the fading passed

I find you now and again
these days,
and drinking and smoking and
all the other ings you do
are still a collected pass-time
but your back
is a little straighter,
at least