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

blue on the walls
on your lips
(cuz you’re weird)
on your shirt
as a flower
on a pin
you paid for with
green
on your shoes (laces)
in the corner
as a plant makes
you feel
grey
like your eyes
not quite blue
and definitely
not green

How many ways are there to say
go to hell?
Righteously speaking your tongues,
lashing unwitting ears.
Burn, burn, burn it all.
If you bore straight into my mind,
what lies would you spread?
What opinions would you plant?
Thankfully,
opening my brain would kill me.
Thankfully,
my favorite phrase is,
I don’t give a shit.

Sometimes
I think
if I had a gun
big enough
I’d cure the world
with a
copper pill

Sometimes
I have a fry-pan
and a spat
ula
and I make it
pancakes instead

I should
‘nt have said
‘all you can
eat’
because
this world
is never not
hungry

hank was probably
his name

i guess so because
of the 4 inches of
buttcrack (3 more than
plumber regulation)
visible between
his wranglers
and his wife-beater

Each chord struck like
pain or
whathaveyou
dissonance
buzzing beating
vibrating particles
rhythm and
sticks
no dynamic markings
improvised decrescendo
falling movement
Moderato click
to softer to
silence
and down

On the leap day
Of the leap year
I step out
the front door
while concurrently
Asserting my
non-existence (daringly[?])
on the bed. On the
leap

Day,
(My first in four years)
I con all my conclusions
And dissolve my disillusions
in eye widened awe
of the rain
under
the awning
(on leap days and[/or] Long Island
it rains sideways)
today is broken into moments of
blinding amazement at
something so simple as
exhaling
and how close it is to whistling
Yes,
we all breath music
We naturally harmonize
on Leap Days, we

Don’t.
Along with the gained wild child-hood
of this day
I’ve also lost a basic understanding of
sounds and shapes
And have found my slouch
pulling me
earthwards
to Crawl again.
Dazed.
On the Leap Day
I don’t understand
Anything.

Which lends itself to
believing in magic
But unfortunately flips
the horizon. I’m
upside down now
I’m caught in the ocean
And all my answers have become
Shrimp.
Which are very hard to find when
it’s just you in the ocean.
On a leap day. Or

any-
When I become five years old
When everything has new meaning
but also
No meaning.
At all.

i’ll give you a penny for your thoughts —
certainly
they’re worth about that much to everyone
in this room.

i take you daily now
to where the bone rot
sugar rests the nerves
and there we roll around
and i am content with
staying

pale yellow sunday
mornings burn our shadows
into the walls which
no one else can read

i woke up today and
sighed
i cracked my neck
i stretched and swore
i’d never have to
do it again

and if you take the
window for just its
light and not its
vista
this seems just like paradise.