and i’ll give you my right arm
for a slice of fried chicken
wrapped in a tortilla and downright
delicious.
but as i’m offering it
i’m finding it increasingly unlikely
my right arm will help you purchase
chicken of any variety…
let alone fried.

my left leg on the other hand [sic]….

francis was whacked today.

i lost a toy i’ve loved since
childhood. a small green frog
stuffed with sand given to me
by a friend in sixth grade as
i walked out the door to move
a lifetime away and return much
too late for our friendship
to remain. i miss that toy
and the memories it’s always
represented, but that seems so
trivial now. as

francis was whacked today.

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.

I wouldn’t be here, fumbling my way through the dark, over-crowded rooms and the sickly, slimy basements searching for the door with calloused fingers; I wouldn’t be in this cave, hiding and hoping for others to miss what I’d done; I wouldn’t drag, head-to-floor slowly, scathingly, begrudgingly through this supposed gateway to Paradise; I wouldn’t be trapped among the dead bodies, barely up-right; I wouldn’t be filling my cup at every empty oasis which offers even the slightest mirage of saturation. If not for you I wouldn’t be stuck staring into a blank wall that surely must bear your image; I wouldn’t look around every corner with my heart all a-flutter thinking to see you waiting there; I wouldn’t rejoice at the melting snow, convinced it promises your return; I wouldn’t imagine your heavy hand upon my shoulder when I need you most; I wouldn’t hold your relics close while all others are gone nor dance with your shadow. I’d steer clear of the sadists and their Opiate Swells and their cold fingers and their dirty hair; I wouldn’t nearer myself to those undeservings who flee from my good graces, would not identify with their self-loathing, their regression, their silence. And if not for you I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

Rain come to hail
and a long way back
and no ride on the way
and a bit lip
and a grin and
a bear
and step after step
before home
and that’s it
and thank goodness
there’s that
at least

Looking out over the city,
my small, quiet, little city,
I see the lights atwinkle,
I see everything I never saw.
the cathedral sits,
squat and menacing,
it casts it’s watchful glare.
st. michael’s sword stretches
from father ryan on into the water,
protecting us from those on the other side.
My city is guarded.
My city is safe.
My city is mine.

God give me the strength to
open my mouth when necessary
speak truth when needed
and to seal my lips when
i’m dying to speak but it’s anything
but useful.
and the wisdom to know the difference

(five more days
till the weekend)
as a kid i hated mondays
weeks dragged on for
years and weekends passed
in minutes.

school was perpetual
boredom with fascinating
social interaction for
minutes at breaks
recesses, and lunch times.

i’d do it again just to watch
who would sit with who. to understand why
baxter was the most popular
boy in sixth grade just because
he had hit puberty a full two years
earlier than the rest of us.

school was perpetual
boredom with fascinating
social interaction every day
i “forgot” my homework.
teachers watching students defy
authority.

student government….
(probably doesn’t deserve
a line of note)

i’d do it again just to watch.

now (five more days
till the weekend)
and my only fear is not being
bored enough this week.

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.

His throat gives way
sometimes
and he is struck by fits of
screaming

And I in my cap
and jacket
am more than happy
to walk away

It’s not so windy,
really.

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.

general examples
compromise
especially from the past
with civil religion
existentialism
lobotomized historically
pruned
lost in its absolutes when it was
sentimentalized

in balding i’ve found myself
at midlife crisis wondering
when and where i’ll find a hat
which will cover my head
shield the sun
and make me look like a
non-jackass

I wish I’d seen your broken fingers
and stopped to ask if you needed help
but you never seemed to and I don’t
think you wanted any anyway

It’s not like I had an extra hand
that you could borrow but at least
I could have helped with a little more
of the heavy lifting than I did

I still have a copy of that note
in a spiral-bound music book on
the page to a tune I memorized
years and years and years ago

I guess I never see it much
anymore but I know it’s there
and I memorized your note too
so it all works out really

If I wrote a note for you I’m
sure it would say the same
sort of thing but the script
would certainly not stand up

Even with those broken fingers
you always did draw the most
fantastic block letters.

there’s that theme that plays and
every time I hear it I never think
of Lester. Lester’s been gone a long
time. Lester’s not even a ghost to a
memory. Lester never talked to me about
anything worth talking about. Lester
did what he was gonna and that’s that.
You did the same thing but I wish
that wasn’t that so much. You ain’t
no antique jazz musician. But you
oughta be. And if I could I’d give
that theme to you. I can’t do that
though. But I’ll play it for you.
Every time.

The weather was right,
at least.

I can understand the
climb.

The drop, I’d not much
care for.

The snapping, even
less.

The swinging might be nice,
though.

And the weather was right,
at least.

You know,
every little thing you did
that someone saw you do
we wrote down and
we pass in a note
from time to time
and this time always seems
the best time
and you know,
most times when
these notes are for other people
they happen to be
bullshit
and only half true
but your note is spot on
point for fucking point
and every time I read it
I get sad again
(and I’m not the only one).
So I hope things
worked out for you
in the end there
but it made things just
that much harder
to work out for us
but that’s okay,
I guess.
I mean, it’ll have to be,
you know?

no one’s leaving notes for you
in the paper that you pretend
to read

it’s all there
in black and white
standard fonts

the fresh news is miles away
being tracked and flashed to
you by satellites

but you crinkle it up
“this is all shit”
you say

they’ve filled your pallette
but you scour your carpet
for a new taste

and you refuse to love the sun
and stay in-doors
praying to your false idols

you believe in magic
like a child
and you won’t be hung for it
but you should.

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