silence is real
in speech lies confusion
there is nothing we can share

I night only lasts so long
until it fades in to negative space
and the breathing is heavy
all along the front stoops and patios
of a long drive home

And with a horn-case in one hand
and a bag of gear strapped loosely
I can understand and credit
a man’s taking to extremes
with the things they love left
back on stage and the person
in another town

Negative values shift black sooner or later
and everything eventually turns real
again
and there’s food and sunlight and
room to exhale
maybe time to take a walk somewhere
and it’s just fine

but soon it circles back again
and I understand things one more time
and a little more clearly
and even through the negative space
what with all those other towns
and all

coffee at three
and new friends
(more than i can manage)
bring new conversation
and a schizophrenic (my first experience)
who brought…
new conversation.

and coffee at three
to keep me up till two.

contrasted with truth
the lies are just a bit
overwhelming
the burdens
too real.

The thing about Memphis is
The water runs different there.
In circles.
Like a ten year Old when nobody’s watching
Or a six year old that’s proud.

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

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves
but you, you’ve got a ten-thousand page dossier
with full-color photos and a reference index
on a retracting line that’s buckled to your belt

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

Sometimes I
can handle listening to
him and her
complaining about
every tedious detail
of their life
and I can even feel
from time to time
sympathy

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.

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.

there are no horns
playing for you
no matter what you do

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 bout of gilbert’s syndrome
(a flare up if you will)
to remind me of my out-vincibility
and the likelihood of death
(1 in 1)

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

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

Do you want to know what acid is like?
Yeah.
It’s like when you had your first
philosophical breakthrough
where one thing clicked
and everything made just
a little more sense

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.

ALL OF YOUR FAKE POLAROID PICTURES
EXPENSIVE CLIMBING GEAR AND
BEAUTIFUL SCENEREY
DITHERED AND BLURRED BECAUSE TODAY’S
MOMENTS JUST DON’T HAVE STICKING
POWER

AND YOUR LIFE MUST HAVE STICKING
POWER

BUT YOU’VE LOST IT ALREADY

UNDER THE PRETENSE THAT

YOU MUST EMPHASIZE ANY THING
AT ALL.

and their single-layerness
their supposed callus-inducing
zippers (a common misconception)
and the way they bend and grow
and mold with me

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.

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.

He smiled at me then,
from across the wall of his jungle hide-away.
He had scribbled on the wall
with paints and inks
and foretold of years and
years to come.

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.

turning it off like a faucet
is possible and almost just as easy.
however the sudden lack of
flooding in my mind is not
nearly so black-and-white
desirable
as an un-flooded kitchen.

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

I recall,
and vividly,
wresting you in a slumped position
with your head cushioned carefully
and your back curved
by the wight of yet another
bad decision

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

a morning to contemplate
to dwell
on truth for a change
and seek something
of worth
a morning to spend
not uselessly in bed
for a change.

I hung from the mirror
one of those smelly pine trees
where you’re supposed
to trim the wrapper
and slide it down bit
by bit
so that the air is freshened
gently and bit
by bit
but I am not one to be gentle
on the matter of pine trees
and though the thing was
labeled ‘black forest’
the Bonneville now smells
like Heaven I tell you