i can bring back yesterday
in a breath of august wind,

i leave with my dreams
and now, rebuild myself with them.

like tightening the screw on
millions of old joints.
i am only loosed laced together.

every cigarette tastes old now,
and even the trees are sighing now.
light and space in the head rush
and i only rush
to feel earth again.

even the moon is tired now.
even the fall will fall now. for,

i reside only in my dreams
built in-between
fingers and calloused eyes.

your eyes move but you stopped reading

there are three thousand ways
to give it all away, but

i stopped writing.
who are words for anyways
just the ghosts we’re leaving behind

here is one:
shadows played out between
fading away fluorescent lights.
or were they neon at times.

it was the first time in my life
i ever thought i was brave.

here is another:
falling in love with winter frost
to belly up the fact that
i can never fall in love at all.

ghosts are only stories.
or, shadows in the back of the cave.

there are three thousand stories
to wrap yourself up in, but

you stopped reading.


dawn broke cold this morning.

i thought of you the way i always wanted
to think of you: as docile as my dreams
told me to be. then the morning fog shaded
the rolling hills out from the greens and
browns of late winter to the white blues
of obliviation.

gulls danced along the pale orange
plane between the tree line and
wrapped up the easter sky.

i used to be thankful you are now
a whole world away, but these
mornings have taught me otherwise.

gratitude is for the ego.

what i can remember is

you said
you couldn’t
porches at midnight,
or how i popped
one foot
on the rail
to dream
james dean.
you didn’t know
i’d do anything
to make you stand
for nothing
and what that would
do to your eyes,
starting to wrinkle
starting to question

you said
you couldn’t
continue being
what you
never were.
how can you
stop being
what you
never started,
how can
you name
grazing my hand
at the fireplace,
or counting
garlic, or
cutouts like
our childhood
was always here?

there’s too many
cigarette butts
filling yellowing
mason jars.
jars which
cast short
on chipping
red paint.
wasted ash in
wasted words
like wasted Lot
and I
look back


at the sound of

at stoops with                  daisies
and marigolds;
that curve down.

and i
can only
the things
you wouldn’t