it is interesting

the way my perspective changes
when i begin to pry your fingers away
from this dear, safe cliff i've built

wouldn't anyone see
that i am only
trying to watch you collide with the rocks

it is innocent, enough
the way i tickle your knuckles
and kiss your wrists

and mention how cold the draft is
and how warm the water must be
and how those rocks, well,

they aren't rocks at all
they are smooth mattresses,
soaked in love

and tender weight to catch
a falling desperate
such as yourself

it is interesting
the way my perspective changes
when i stand above you

instead of nearly level ground
and your fingers nail themselves down
with stubborn hope

that they could pull,
dig,
scratch and lift you higher

and it is mostly innocent,
the way my eyes hold steady
with my spade ready

to chip, scrape and
remove the cliff
around your fingers

all the while mentioning
how cold this time of year gets
especially at such a height

and all the while motioning
to the clear and lovely light below
like foil in the oven

to the warm, the water
you must be tired from the stress
of gripping, digging,

scratching cliffs
that everyone can see
and i am only

chipping round your fingernails
digging beneath your palms
tugging at your cuticles

and i wonder how much longer
you will hold
the guilt in me, controlled

to crush those bones
where knuckles bend
twist fingernails
with metal grips

and mention words i said
i warned you, i told you

where you would end
and doesn't swimming
sound so nice in warmer waters

far away from this draft
and the cold
and the cliff

and my uneven ground
that continues to split
new cuts, new rifts

this is not innocence,
and all the while i think
that the water on your cheeks

ends up down in the waves
colder now than when made
and far away from this edge

but some fingers break
and loosen, and bleed
as the others release

and i wonder
if you'd still be clutching this cliff
if mine were not the first you'd seen.

full circle.

I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the shapeless shapes and the shades of black that seemed to crawl with the spots that appeared from straining my eyes.
If there were a mother nearby, she certainly would have heard my unrest in the night. But that room is empty.
If there were a father nearby, he certainly would have noticed my sweat-stained bed. But that room is empty.
If there were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with their refined, developed heads,
And a wife’s hair pressed into the husband’s shoulder,
And a shifting, midnight kiss,
They surely would have come, come rushing in the room at the sound of the only son, the only child, screaming.
But those rooms are separate, and one is always empty.
So I sewed my eyelids shut with a thread from the doll somewhere near my bed,
the dolls that gave no comfort when lit with devil darkness, black blood in scarlet shades down their stitched faces.
So I sewed my eyelids shut, and hoped for morning.
Morning came, and brought with it sight, but no change.
Mother, those bottles are always empty. Father, those filters are always lit.

So I grew, pushing down pillows with my refined, developing head,
and sewing my eyelids whenever the night would call, and spots would crawl, until I left that house,
Leaving the impression of depressions in the carpet in the hall, I closed the door hard and I was gone.
For good, I said, and married her, and carried her through poverty and pregnancy,
And mid-west-east-coast residency, and now I had a counterpart who could see the spots, and sweep them away.
And I never needed threaded needles again.

Then 1989, the third in line, arrived as our first boy,
And I woke up. I was dreaming. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the forming shapes and shades of gray that dragged their claws across my eyes.
Their mother is nearby; she certainly should have heard my unrest in the night.
But that side is empty.
If we were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with our refined, life-giving heads,
And her lips, pressing to my shoulder,
Meeting my shifting, midnight kiss,
Then surely we would wait at the edge of the covers, for any stir, murmur, or breath held too long, and rush to their heads, and keep their eyes closed.
Not sewing them shut, but relaxed, and reposed.
Morning came, and brought with it light, but no color.
Mother, your phrases are always empty. Father, your sleepless nights never quit.

So I tried gluing them shut, with some glue made from Atlantic sea salt and a pearl from the street, and the three younger children, that brought us to six.
I tried gluing them shut, but those shapeless shapes and growing grays dragged claws across my eyes, and tore them apart, and forced me to stare at the room that was not quite dark enough to go back to sleep, not quite dark enough to pretend I wasn’t there, not quite dark enough to hide the threaded needle I had kept for years, unused.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
And while my children grew, pushing down pillows with their developing heads, I was sleepless again.
So I sewed my eyes shut.

I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room is bright, a sickening, perfect afternoon that reminds me I’m alone.
If there were a mother nearby, she would scold me for wasting my day.
But her room is empty. She waits out the rest of her life with others too hard to take care of.
If there were a father nearby, he would be smoking behind this window.
But his room is empty. His grave is full.
I feel the pressure of my aging, grey-scale head, pressing into the pillow on my aging bed, and I think of the family I do not have.
I think of how I lost my mind trying to be everything, to everyone.
So I sewed my eyes shut.

roots beneath

I prefer your waving, leafy limbs
Not more than a breeze,
set in motion.
And the breeze, oh simply that
Will uproot, and fling about

I prefer your roots beneath
Not much more than tripping feet,
a reminder you are near.
And the ground, once packed and smooth
Will disturb, your underground grenade

I prefer your seasons changing
So much more than just time passing,
shift your colors.
And the life, the beauty that
Will die, and break apart

You and I, as stoic statues
Witnesses to living paint

I prefer your seasons changing
I prefer your roots beneath
I prefer your leafy limbs -
and the earth, our dirty feet.

color me obvious

At 1:02
I waited. You,
absent, beautiful.
Loving minutes, caressing hours,
getting tongue down the back of the little big hand.

9:32
Your breath was new,
a quiet, flutter.
I felt your clothes, your want and more,
pouring light to the palm of my hand.

But 1:43
Mind raced, and see,
the finish line blurred and sank.
Swirled love and color, adoration,
fold your dreams, melt them all down the back of my hand.

So 8:31
Looming, spun,
returned. And beautiful.
Loving numbers, knowing letters,
rolling life round and round in the palm of my hand.

sick

Give me your sick nostalgia
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
Those hooks aren’t too deep;
I’ll slide them out slow
so you can rest on your feet.

Give me your mixed-up matters
I’ll give you a single partner
The kind who will not falter;
I’ll show fact, not fiction
You can’t dispute on your back

Flitting windows,
closing books.
Minutes walk by;
a moment's look.
this is closure,
a finality feel

Give me your hanging eyelids
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
These matters aren’t too deep;
I’ll murmur all my words low
You can fall underneath.

speaking of keeping

Speaking of keeping,
and thinking of leaving,
I should have kept my distance.

My second wind,
a cocaine binge,
My aim and wit are broken.

Hypocrisy, anxiety
This piece of me, this melody
This cracking fault, a line and

Mine. Mindful of
Time, and its posted
Signs. Warning of the end.

Speaking of leaving,
and thinking of keeping
Myself out of the way.

My purge and binge,
our second wind
My shaking, splitting broken

Deity, reality
This place, replacement
Side of me, a cracking fault

Line. It’s mine, the
Time, that won’t repeat or
Wind, or mend.

symmetry

if i could
remember any of her words
i would keep them to the end
of my consciousness
conscience, keep quiet.
memory, lay low.

it seems our talk was silent.
it seems that by the end
i could not remember,
how to remember
how to

remember any of my words
did you keep them to the end
of your symmetry
your grinding teeth, stay steady.
lashes, slip below.

the single letters,
phrases,
ghosts of syllables and sighs
clouds of language forming
thunderous words from fully blackened skies

piece.
the.
days.
together.
give them substance.
give them time
to evolve to lonely
sentencing,
this sentence: yours or mine?

if i could just remember
just a portion of a word
that she allowed release
from the jail behind her teeth
given substance,
given time,
is the difference between dreams
and whatever i am now.

if i could remember
i would keep it to the end.

read this

and know exactly what it means.

it's getting colder.

This creeping love,
this wine-drunk stumble
with a full glass and empty stomach
this light in my chest.
It keeps the goosebumps,
keeps the shakes,
but removes the cold.
It keeps the clothes, the snow,
the look-out-from-under-eyelashes seduction,
that twists me until
my throat must be near my ankles.
my liver must be in my mouth.
I am upside-down,
I am spun,
I am diluted and strained -
and pure.
I am the snow behind you,
background to the beauty,
observer, the lucky,
the beneath-feet lover
and the backseat watcher,
wakeful and waiting.
And your frame fits firm in my frail arms,
and the flooding strength fills me,
renders me safe.