"This Ain't No Fucking Sing Along"

Wander in, just
before the creak of the door.
I see you, little moon.
Stretched
across the floors I walk,
the home I live in,
I see you.
And you’re aware, certainly
of the places I’ve carved as my own,
and still
damn it, I see you.

And the trouble with that is,
despite the many hours,
days and days
climbing, sleepless
from nightfall;
despite the tan my skin has taken
a comfortable affection
for the sun –warm, constant-
when darkness plays
the right song,
I see you, little moon.

And what kind of poet would I be
if I didn’t at least once
liken myself to the tides?

Six Letter Word for Dirty, Immoral

My therapist thinks I’ve romanticized you.
(Newsflash: I have.)

Blames an active childlike imagination,
my need for fun, and a past
of repressed spontaneity.
Tells me there is safety in the fantasy
and you’re a sexy-lunatic.

My personal opinion is
that he has trivialized this whole situation.

Also, that he is an asshole.

Although the sound of your laughter
is really quite unnerving.

Brief

Drowning itself is quick and silent.
If I had to, I’d liken it
to a prayer.
Sweet Ophelia knows.
The brevity of her own
tempered
inhalations
keeping pace with the slowing of her
cells, the cooling of her blood.

Hardly epic.
Factual.
“Dear God, I’m drowning.”
punctuated by
celebrated by
gasps.

Tragic as
the absence of her name
once buried.

Code Switching

Automaton*
I do not need you to take care of me.
That is what my organs are for.
My heart beats, unprompted
sometimes, even, flipping upon itself.
How fortunate,

how

marvelous
I am to have such acrobatic innards.


Automaton(s)
Alive.
Like that time you took me to dinner
and laughed at my unease, at my
greenness. I’m certain
later
at the eagerness with which I threw it
all on the fire.

My, “Can I have one?”
the filling of two
quite
virgin lungs (I still
can’t catch my breath).

Swim (rather)

“Praying over water changes the shape
of the molecules. Like love water is hexagonal or
giving thanks is an octagon, or some bullshit like that,
I’m not really sure…”
striking as this statement is (or could be depending
on your personal level of evangelicalism) perhaps --
more so, is the godlessness
with which she spits it out—bing cherries, knots of blonde hair.
and I wonder what I’m supposed to do with that
kind of information.

“Makes me want to build a boat,” she interrupts.

Hush, Siren.

Fourth from the left, one right of center
there is a gap.
It is the intimacy
of this awareness
that I have before
mistaken as sacred,
as ancient.

Teeth, moon, bone
(recurring themes).

I know this because
I’ve been close enough to see it.
and I know this because
I’ve been close enough to hide it
hush, siren .
(or avoidance)
don't smile.

Facts are more beautiful (I feel less guilty?) as poems

In the thirteenth century
it was customary
to be quartered
when convicted of high treason.

Hanged, until death was near certain
and then, each limb
bound to the tethers of a horse
were
at once, pulled apart
with the crack of a whip.

“Although, for decency purposes
women were burned at the stake.”