i was here for
8 hours for every
24 it took the sun
to go over my head
and come back again
and now we’re
closing up shop

the floors are cleaned
and silence pervades
this beast that time
gave a name

the pawn shop,
where you learn the absolutes
how to avoid them
and to spend your time
swimming in hyperbole

unchecked commerce
on the edge of the west
the dying fashion of
negotiation

and we’re closing up shop
and once the doors lock
a stranger to this womb
i will be,
but all the better for it.

when i eat deliciousness i cannot help
but worship the One who made
the chickens to eat the grass to soak
in this sauce, the sauce made of the
the grain fermented by the yeast of
heaven for beer to be boiled and
then chicken to be thrown in. i cannot
help but worship the One who made
the ground nutritious wherein the red pepper
can grow slowly more spicy to be chopped
and added to beer sauce for chicken to
soak in.

when i smoke deliciousness i cannot help
but worship the One who made
this Indian weed, and the ground where
the leaf can grow tall, strong, and be cut
down. the One who made the sun dry the leaves
and the One who made the ground perfect
for this tree to be cut down, for it’s wood to be
porous and cool, and light, to be perfectly clenched
between my teeth so i may worship while
my prayers are slowly carried to heaven
in clouds of smoke. something i know is unnecessary
but i like to imagine happening nonetheless.

when i smoke, and when i eat, and when i drink,
i cannot help but praise the Creator.

Jewelry adorned
every extremity
but she wanted more
so she took a diamond ring
and he could not afford
to feed his family.

He would toil
for months again
just to make back a half
of that stolen fortune,
and would pray that she
not wander by again,
and lustfully.

She only wanted more
than he could offer,
even if she said
she loved him.

He would suffer
nonetheless

Away we go away from Owego
And by the place where all’s well in Endwell—
To where perhaps there’s gold buried in Gouldsboro.
Further on, to where one wonders why
There’s such animosity towards vegetation in Bushkill Falls.
Of course, that’s nothing compared to Buttzville,
Which must be a terrible place to live, butt made a great rest stop.
There were others. They’re still there.
I imagine I’ll go back some time.

For Tara 

I’m going to be
the first man on the moon.
But you’ll be getting here soon.
In the meantime
I’ll try to stay on the side
that catches all the light.
You’ll see me
(just a speck)
I’ll be waving to you.
And when the day comes
that you don’t see me there
Don’t worry, I haven’t gone
anywhere.
I’m lowering you a ladder
the rope is made of silk
and you’ll climb it.
I know that you will.
That’s just what you do.
And will call it our own
when we’re both
on the moon.

when handled with care
and filled just so
she brings me calm for
some time in a way so
few others can.

Like trees left to their own devices
we grow until we run out of sun
and water

Unlike our leafy brothers, we
can kick and flail when the others come
to cut us down

Some are cut nonetheless
and sawn and made to boards
that are made to hold up
the others’ works.

Some cut back,
like me.

I am like a tree
with a chainsaw and a memory.

take my
face and dunk it in
chemicals you’ve “man-made”
in china.

water-board the amnesia
out of me and remind
me of life and what it was

Bright blue over green
and a bit of flex in the extremities
and thin, and not very heavy

There were many moments spent
back then, and that’s how they’ll stay
and well spent really
on burgers and not bus rides

I really did care, and maybe a bit
too much. I really did walk once –
far too long for nothing. I really
am sorry, though, for a few things.

If someone sees you, I hope
they tell you that I wish you well.

You deserve it.

i’d say this made me
a better person but we would all know it was a lie.
it does nothing to add or take
away (for that matter)
from my personhood-awesomeness
factor.

rather it makes me a more approachable
man.

it makes me seem down to earth
(as i’m stuck down in it)
and open’s people’s minds to hear
what i might say
think
or do.

they don’t look at me and my aesthetic
and open up naturally.
my beard ruined that possibility
(though they do giggle sometimes).

but this.
this of all things,
brings a personal note they love
adore
relate to.

opens doors otherwise closed
and lets the air in to filter
out the smoke.

You told me
you are a firm believer
in the Oxford comma. Baby
THAT
is fucking sexy.

even defacating is lonely
without your cell-o-phone friends
in the place where your
bad dreams wander into daylight
in the place where they pay you
to sift below the lazy pyramid
it’s okay, it’s your day off
drop acid.

no these words will not do you justice
just as they entirely failed me.
leaving me to grope around in the dark
chasing after a poet teachers said i
wrote like, and then later—forgetting—
they told me said
poet should have stuck to editing
and i just stared in response.
because that’s what words do, they fail.

or maybe it’s me who fails them and you’ll suffer an entirely different fate.

the heat went out
and we all pretended like
it wasn’t the third time,
like we could still blame
somebody else. So we
bundled up and played guitars
and card fames and
got the boiler running enough
to spackle our rooms with
limited flame whispers and
heat licks like warm water
was less necessary (so we
showered somewhere else).
And the whole time we were
singing and drinking in
defiant opposition of the suited
men who held hostage our oil and
we never even called them
or cared to check our bills.

i’m fairly certain this will make me feel manly,
or look manly
or be manly.
what’s a man anymore?

We could have dashed away
in the deep dark night
and never venture to cross our paths
again

we shared our warmths
instead
and counted headlights on the highway

and I never considered
the deep dark night
again

I promise
to be always your lamplight.
Rooted outside your window even
when the cold is breaking me.
And always your room
will be lit by my bulb,
even dimly, sometimes,
but I will glow if I can, when
I can’t, I will flicker
your fingers and nightlight
your walk home. Though I
cannot claim to be
the brightest light you will find,
I will be constant, and will
be your window’s sunrise.
There will be days I may start
to burn you. I will try to
not be the fire and only
the light, I am sorry
when I don’t get that right.
And

I promise
to be always your window
I will show you
the most beautiful things.
Lay your head near me;
hear how easy you make
my wind breath. Let me
whisper you lilac, and
cool your pillow before
you sleep. I cannot claim
to be the world, but I can
show it to you, and what you
want to, you can see through me.
There will be
days when I will not open,
when the force of your
fingers even cannot pry
fresh air from me,
when this happens,
I am sorry. And

I promise
to be always your pillow.
Yes lumpy, yes old, yes
imperfect and feather leaking;
I know I am like this
in the same way I know I am yours.
I cannot claim to be the silk
or the dream, but I can always
try to help you to sleep.
You may rest your head on me
at the end of each long day,
I was made just to carry that weight,
I can promise you that.

yea, i’ve been distracted.
uhuh, it’s been bad.

my mind has gone places
i wish i could bring it back from
but the beach it’s found there
is wide and the sand is white,
the water is clear and warm
and the mountains are something
of a comfort to a soul that’s simply
tired of fighting the good fight
and want’s a rest.

the problem is my mind
left my body behind to fight
and void of intellect my body
isn’t fighting very well.

sure sword is in hand
and the battlefield is where
i’m standing, but i’m uncertain
if i’m facing the enemy or my
own combatants. what color
are we? are we home or away?
and why are all the commands
of my leadership seemingly in
a language i cant understand?

my mind has gone places i wish
i could bring it back from, but it’s
told me on no uncertain terms that
it expects me to win this one
on my own. when the battleground
is clear, then, and only then will
it brave leaving the beaches behind
for the dumpster that my body
has become.

She never heard a disparaging remark
as beautiful as when he said ‘I love you’
but they were still going to drag him away
and kill him.

Now she sits alone every night and drinks
but it’s not to forget, she
just likes the taste of liquor
and the soft bread she soaks in it

When he comes back she’ll be better
or she tells herself as much
but that cold blood puts a damper on things

Then, she was a bright morning flower;
Now, but a pile of pedals on a concrete floor

for these wounds
keep healing
faster than i can re-open them