an even ten

and so another month falls blankly over
blankets and swaddles and enervates with an insistence
this deep, abhorrent will to be held
me: oh and you: oh and of course everyone : oh well inside
of me
without you?
there are other ones, little me and big and the deep
coat of winter may stifle or even stilt
the long white tarp will drag and also tear
and so another month falls blankly down
chills, freezes, preserves.
for another day: oh, and another him: oh and maybe you
in the end: this, this. enough.

wings, man

it only follows that there's not much more to discuss
the delicate ripping of strong things
violent sounds in silent places and deep, empty chests
the very things of which i am made, my brightest qualities
make me less than
make me beneath
and what can i do? detach, be still? stifle? seduce?
these are things i cannot do.
it only follows that there's not much more to discuss
and very little left to say
only that--

well,
you get the message.

beyond reproach

"this is not okay"
the deep, metal grind of a long, untethered fall
re-possessed feelings, uncompressed or unfelt
uncut grass falls slowly overhead
dying clouds settle calmly in
this is not okay, no, but it's here
and i cannot walk away from me
my spine is crushingly heavy, my head is achingly full

i was wrong
i would not cry
i taste salt
but i would not cry
this is not okay

oh, manahatta: an epic

this
it was supposed to a letter
it is not.
i was supposed to be a shepherd
and i am not.
the grass was meant to grow for months
and it, too, did not.
the many things which are not and may never be,
they will linger and stab
and i, i will sit here with hands clenched, heart peeled and
lungs shivering in breath
waiting to inhale all of this ecstasy and pain and
you, you will let me
you will have to let me suffer in your stead
in gratitude for
and maybe in spite of this thing
of ours
what am i supposed to do?
this

the past

sometimes i dream of violent sex
hands grasping hands, lungs, chests
the inside of everything forcing its way out
the deep, gut-wrenching satisfaction
the safeness of trusting someone to use me well
validation in every strangled moan

the kind of thing we never did, because
you were too kind to let me try
the pulsating, throbbing articulation of your words
deep in the night, far beyond the point at which i knew--
tomorrow will be our last--
and we will never try to force ourselves into each other
not ever again.

so that is where i'm left, miles
from land. a buoy
a boy
a strange,
tepid man.

lit

before the deluge
when all of my words were smooth,
kempt and clean and seductive
without ego, productive, lucid
before the deluge
when the nameless death was far-off
crouching in the wiry distance
waiting without warning; no lantern eyes
before the deluge
when i built my levees tall
but not so very strong
i prayed for rain, floods, mountains of water to sink us all
then watched as everything occurred.

monkeys

shukran, merci, gracias

thank you more than you can know

for days, nights, and mist covered moons

i howled and nobody was looking, i watched it

echo out over the hill. the sound bounded back to me

ricocheting through my pupils, ending abruptly and no one

having heard it but me. i howled and nobody was looking. i didn't

care.

salutations to the void.

it is good to be, in spirit, exactly what you are.