the world is filled with beautiful men and the base monochrome tile that listens to a baby crying over how long it has been.
i’ve watched you sigh at this like another vhs repeat of life in blurred polychromatic fuzz. computers were simple while we lives in explosions of fabric and
— — —
in waiting for love i wait for the 10:30 arrival at a terminal where no one knows each other’s name. we search and wait for so much to be unwrapped but what can we do without so much mystery?
i have been waiting and watching my breath like it is the last thing i will be able to grasp, grasping it like i did between nights under stars and moments of bliss.
live in a red house out on the grey in the baltic, where the surf fills chambers with emptiness and fastness and nothingness but what it simply is.
in my dreams are these memories
of tall boys playing me philip glass
and promising a lifetime of sweet things,
like dew drops on 4 o clock flowers
and weaving the thread between you and
i until the shadows stop swaying from left
to right and into oblivion.
you are trying to be beautiful boy but
what is in it?
i am built of the sun rain and grass, but
when you speak i am built of the bundle of
stress you’ve used to lace yourself together.
tell me that i’m doing it right, in between
these quiet rains and long trains. tell me
its only a whisper.
tell me there is sweetness in the world
outside. i have in my memory only air
and joy, only light and love.
finally, there is something else.
besides the salt dust and sea
gravel shifting beneath my feet.
besides memories of wide open
seas and holding hands with a
future that wasn’t mine.
for an hour she followed the lines
traced by raindrops in the loose
for once surrendered to herself.
cats tell you they love you this way.
i counted the bloom of white tear drops,
and, couldn’t you have followed
the line i traced for you?
here you are and i’ve found you again
underneath the gentle sand and folded shells.
like whispered winter,
or the time we spent counting the frozen
leaves still dangling from the stoop weeds.
can you please reread this moment in
the gentle sunlight, can you please re-
read the tally of how many lovers have
forced us to becoming?
there are lost souls in the lake and they
are trying to remind us to let go of all
the things we are not.
fold yourself in underneath these
sheets and allow me to trace
something else, lines from every
point of energy to absolutely
pull out from underneath the ratted sheets.
the day is old when i wake like this.
this day is bred from wrinkled shrink wrap
and crumpled up ash.
i breathe into and out of the pose the lake holds
as though through the imitation, i could
be the peace the rest of the universe
settles itself into.
pull out from underneath the faded light.
the day is old.
i’ve quit the sticks, i think,
so i can learn to listen to
magnetic pins again.
when you remember to,
come find me.
this year i will be disappointed less
finding myself staring at blank ceilings less
wondering why i’m here less
wishing i could just put it together less
and just letting it all happen anyways
for my sin grows in the cracks of driveways
drought and cement and pesticide be damned
so sat john on the timber
an invitation had been lost
to colliding waves, set
along by the great green
listen to my dreams,
one could be the sun,
drawn by the shadow.
echoing audio into
standing rippling waves
who sing the shadow inside