Thursday, March 31, 2011

because you are the house.
because you are the road in winter;
the endless passing

you are more than a year. Where
you travel, I linger
for want of a roof; yes, I need
the floor and the walls.
We have arrived --
a winter twice as cold
and air twice as clear. We know
we have changed by how many
layers we need -- boots, sweaters, coats.
I've counted bricks upon bricks
measuring a finger's width between.

The house is still
fogged in place; I am standing
at the doorstep with the key
because you have yet to arrive.

And how long
before your intended arrival
or my departure, when
what is thrown open shall be shut tight--
you never confirmed,
yet I still suspect your pace
across vales
and veils of snow.

Saturday, March 26, 2011


Bits and pieces not necessarily related....

I know no other word for love,
I know no other word for you,
but love and you, you and love,
love and you and you.


Sometimes, it is like having a ghost stuffed in your mouth, a phantom lurking blindly behind the couch, waiting for you to sit, yes, sit quietly, listen to the TV and then suddenly, spark, a flashlight flash and you're thinking, he's here, no, he's not here, are there two in the room or just me?

And other times, we write letters to strangers, seek no one to speak to, seek hard, seek up and down, climb stairs, jump stairs, under stairs, perhaps under the sink -- have you checked the pipes? Where did we stuff his fingers, the soles of his feet? Is he dead

or just an afterthought, a flavor of the week, he'll be back, that's what you say, you liar, you heartless lying slug he'll be back, he's on his way, just fifteen seconds more he's on his way....


because most days I can't find
anything, not a damned slip of paper
or a noteworthy thought, anything to jot down
on envelopes, bank cards, order forms, receipts,

and when asked for a name, I give your address
as though I could ever travel
by way of bus stop, or common flight to meet you
midpoint, halfway there.


Sometimes, sometimes, it sneaks up around corners
and springs, outstretched, claws
into the neck.

It strikes between
words, skewered
on a pike; where is my head?

no doubt, 

holding myself
high in conversation, 
I am struck down by 
what is behind me; what is over 
my shoulder.

ice swept, wind swept, wind fought, hard wind
hard light, hard touch, touch earth, touch me

we are here, not here, there, always there
outside, digging

our holes, our wants, wishing and

down, down, down, down
F A L L 
again, time, again
push me 

Sunday, March 13, 2011

What clouds do to me...
or maybe my sudden sobriety...
or maybe the acute, frigid stab of air
or the same street after street after street

or maybe the gunshot
bleeding out
over sheets, and two morons useless
in the next room: trapped
and dying -- dammit, stem the flow

I want to feel
the burn of ice and
heat in my gut -- anything

to subtract from where
I spill all over the carpet.


I have not forgotten the subtle
ways of speech, a click of jaw
or tilt of head --

ambient light
and a discourse on salvation
that proved the discourse of our hearts --
your eyes as a child --
the simple way you laid your hands.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Poetry speaks from the empty

sheets of compressed

A poet is hollow
that floods may pass, and
thunderous, churning waves consume.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


Did you hit the blacktop?
Skin chilled, dark into destination.

I didn't know when to meet you.
Did you

walk into the slick and pose
against headlights, eyes aglow

to let them pass, but could not
time your step; there were trees

lining the highway, fruit crushed
and branches strewn; what of distance?

you are a stone's throw from the road