the warrior is shackled
and puts his blade
to use cutting appetizers
to sate the gluttons
and the all-gods of money
be they mystical
or real as the shackles

the cutting
lasts for 8 or more hours
a day

and then his hut for sleep

and then back again

and he might do this forever

but maybe his shackles
are made out of pride.

I live
in the dark finger of space
between two fences. One
on the formless neighbor’s side
and one on ours. In
a two sided attempt at
keeping each other out
by building
taller and taller fences
we have trapped an armpit inch to
permanently become what
no man tries to own.
So I burrow my secrets through
holes and
over the top, into the crack
and have named that spot after all
my bad habits and poor judgments.
I record my
petty lies just quiet enough they
never make it out
the other side, instead they
gather at the bottom like
broken leaves and cobwebs just
waiting
for my digressions
to burst the poor fence open
and wash away
my childhood home
in a tidal wave of hidden
personal shames
I’ve only spelt out here.
Some days
I get so goddamn remorseful
I worry all the
ants I’ve ever stepped on
have been reincarnated as bigger
ants
and are under my bed
just waiting to swarm me
in my sleep.
And the ants don’t scare me
as much as
the concept of retribution.
So I bury apologies
through the cracks in the fence
to the crack between the fences
because there is a very real possibility
that I might actually have hurt some people
that my petty lies combined
might weigh too much.
I’ve filled the fence to overflowing
with every small misdeed
that I commit
Tagged
with an excuse
and a note that says “I’m sorry”
“I’m sorry
that I hold parts of myself behind a fence
that I tuck the
ugly things
into the nothing between slats.
That I try to deny
myself humanity that way.”
I write this same apology
over and over
until my hand cramps too hard
to keep moving.
I have always
been afraid of retribution so
I wrap all my admittances in
the same silk apologies
hard knuckle pressed into fences
and forget them as strong as I can.
It’s easy for a boy to forget that he’s a man.
It’s a lot harder for him to accept it.
I’ve put this fence up
and I don’t know how to knock it down
I don’t know how
to allow myself the
most foolish pleasure of
openly wearing my flaws
It’s hard to see into this fence
And it’s hard to get out.

I walk city streets sometimes and I
understand a few things here and there
and I can see where you’re coming from
about the used-to-been’s and the
back in the days

All your clothes are kind of worn
from long, too long, spent
pulling levers and filling tanks
and counting and sorting and
you were the best, I’m sure

But I’ll tell it to you straight
as I can, and i don’t want you
to be upset, so I hope you can
take it, but
there’s never been any honor
in the scent of gasoline and
beef jerky

I wish you could walk these streets
just like I do and I wish that
here and there some things would
come together but you’re still wearing
your company jacket and still
rattling off line-counts and
pressure ratings

and the gas smell has more or less
come out of all of your slacks
but jerky, so I’ve been told,
is still two-for-one at the
Stop’N’Go on 12th street

oh the horror of the mold
on the edge of the cheese
which wont be removed with
the swift slice of a knife
despite your prowess in
wielding objects of the
sharp assortment because
the mold is merely a metaphor
of something much harder to
extract from your worthless
life. the kind once valuable
but stored for much too long
in an environment much too
stale and humid, hence the
mold. you were asked about
this at 17, when you admitted
you knew not the meaning
of life, but you chose to
live on anyhow. like that
cheese — under-refrigerated.

oh the horror of the
worthlessness of meaningless
life rubbed in your face on
this long drive between home
and your old home where your
parents live but you were too
ball-less to move far enough
away to make a clean break
and find direction and do
something worthwhile.

yes
your life is meaningless.

and not because of your
dead-end job at the local
coffee shop. but because your
passion dried up in jr. high
when you turned down the only
thing you ever knew was
undeniably true.

Dear Tara.
I know you know this: every minute that has passed since I last opened my eyes against yours has been an increasingly stretched hour. I am considering naming each day that passes without inhaling your exhale at least one time, a week. I sincerely hope you will not find the age that I will be freshly wearing the next time you see me unattractive; but each month that I don’t see you buries itself so jarring against my skin that I have wrinkled harder than my twenty years are worth.

What I mean is, my watch and calendar have conspired against me. Sometimes I lie down and close my eyes as if to sleep, and open them an hour later to see them proclaim it already the next day. The sun is in on it too. They all tell me I just miss you a day’s worth each hour.

If this were true, it would help explain how few sunrises I have seen in the year since our fingers unlaced.

I have been wearing your memory heavy, like a wool perfume; it often overwhelms me with warmth and sweetness, and even strangers have noticed how lovesoaked I am.

What I mean is, the letters in your name sometimes fill my mouth so aggressively, they spill out quicker than I can catch them. They have flooded the rooms of a handful of strangers, who are now also vowing their love for you. I have told them that whenever they are ready, I have an open challenge for a race from here, to you.

Because I have no other choice, I will win.

The problem with two asteroids falling in love is that they have a whole lot of space to fill. And so sometimes, the radius of their orbit around each other needs to expand. And with every inch outward, space gets a whole lot bigger and a whole lot colder.

What I mean, is I have written “home” between my arms, and will someday bring you home.

What I mean, is I miss you. Come home to me.

What I mean, is I will see you soon. It will never be soon enough.

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.

i dwell on invincibility
when time is short
and worthwhile thought
will probably drive useful
conclusions but take
utterly too much time.

so i stand in front of busses
and fly off of cliffs,
out of airplanes and
underwater
in my mind
because it takes me nowhere
of any value

my favorite place to be

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.