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

i pissed myself laughing
and broke my ribs and
turned blue-close to
asphyxiation
and the tremor giggles
were painful for days
and i shit my pants
and oh my legs quivered
at the all-holy
and wept at its feet
and then i went to work
and came home and ate
some food and then i
saw another one and

I cover myself with cuts
and scratches
as I stride or stalk
from point to point in time
and rotation

and I hardly complain at all

But sometimes a needle
will nick just so
or a bramble will sink deep
or paper cuts
(Paper Cuts!)
will stop my stride
(or stalking)

and sometimes in mid-step

and though these wounds
sting mercilessly now and then
they are but cuts
and scratches

and I swear I will not pick at them
(most of the time)

There were whisps of cloud in the sky
if I recall correctly
and the paint on my car hood
was dull as ever
and we went on like we always did

I learned to walk once
and haven’t stopped since
and I’ve spoken good English
for some time now and
I’ve had seven cars in
just as many years
but the first one is always
such a thing, you know?

and we went on like we always did
except for the part where I
finally got to see you play
and it was just such a thing.

i recall youth
and fields where i asked my father
to explain the minutiae of the
grain my family called ‘wheat’.
i’d run through with broken
shoes on skinny paths past
harmless snakes and burst past
sandstone while chomping straw
freshly picked and void of
grain as it’d already been chewed.

i recall smiling as the skies were so
bright my mother feared for sunburn;
that and my father’s smile of delight
on his boy and his utter obliviousness
to the complex world around him.

i was there when snow fell and filled
the dirty fields with redemptive white
long before i understood any symbolism
i appreciated the beauty, even the cold.

and the mountains i took for granted?
now i regret my lack of understanding.
regret my granted taking
my youth leaving
and my lack of picturesque memory keeping.

in my youth i used to
disconnect our family’s
home telephone and
run a line up to my
bedroom and call
girls or prank
call businesses

i was on the
internet
giving out my credentials

chatting
and
sometimes even
recieving phone calls
from california
or ann arbor
or iowa

even after punishment
i would run this wire
in the night
like a spy

i never knew
you were dying for that
and
i’ll be turning
24 this year.