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i will name and number
the goosebumps
on your trembling skin
the way they name and number
the stars in the sky.

i will trace new constellations
with my finger tips
on your bare back
as a reminder of how much exists
in ourselves, in this world
that we can never see
(at least without help).

and as your body bends and
your lips and lungs shudder and moan
we will invent new shapes and words
to replace the old ones:
joy, desire, love – they are flat, stale;
they have been tipped over and emptied out
by centuries of misuse.

together
we will find
fitting replacements
for these tired words,
these worn down signifiers.

together
we will be the spark
that starts the world anew.

 

 

I had that dream again
where I was running down the street
and I saw you
up above me, flying in circles.
You were laughing and smiling and waving
and you kept blowing kisses and
raining
bombs.

(originally published in deLuge: flash flood)

around a fire, my friends and i sit
the whiskey gone, several beers in
more alcohol than blood
these days,
these nights

our brains hiding in the soles of our feet
our hearts falling out of our mouths,
dangling from our parched tongues
(this drought seems endless,
the rain never falls)

but we still find the courage to smile, sometimes
we still summon a foolhardy strength to go on
to go on, regardless

and together and in turn
we dissect
we lay out and examine
the meager portions
life and love,
luck and chance
have doled out to us:

not even enough to feed a mouse,
but we would share them with each other
all the same

and the disappointment
the struggle
the absolute
ruin
is almost palpable
as we sit around the fire
watching the flickering light
illuminate
lifetimes of regret

i suppose
it is enough to be
alone
sometimes
as the anvil absorbs blow after blow
as rusty cans oxidize under a harsh sun
as the junkyards fill and the forests burn

as love walks away,
and does not look back

and as we drink to better moments,
moments that seemed so few,
we jokingly pry our eyes open wide
so as not to miss another

yes, it is true
what they say:
that only the lowest of the low
may minister to one another

and in the shrieking silence
one of my friends laughs
and says
love is like a
battleship:
obsolete,
fit only for tattoos

and i laugh
and i disagree
but i understand

and walking to the river, dragging my shadow
through all of that moonlight
i think of her
i think of her
i think of her

and i can’t help but laugh
as i feel the last of my grace
slipping away

each day I wake
I say today
today
today might be better
this could be
the day
when it all turns around

today could be the day
that that goodness
that that love
which has proved so elusive
stumbles into my life

today

it could happen
today

and I have followed this line
this hope
for years now

and it has worn so thin

it is
famished

still I say
today
it could be today

but I have had so many
days

I have grown thin
with the waiting
the longing
the desperate
patience

I have dug so many graves
in the wreckage of my days

I have watched
my diminishing hopes
dangle
like a spider
in the wind

precarious, but
somehow still
intact

and tonight
when I go to sleep
as I slip away
into empty dreams
I will say
tomorrow
maybe tomorrow
will be the day

maybe tomorrow

maybe

 

She said she was from Venus. Here on Earth
they force-fed her cocaine and alcohol.

All she really wanted was a drink of water,
but they wouldn’t serve that to me, either.

She wanted to know if I could see the Southern Cross
from my country, mistakenly believed to be Spain.

I said, “No, the Crux is not in my night sky.”

She demanded to know if I believed in God.
I said, “No, but I really would like to.”

(I really would)

She asked me if I would talk to God for her.
I told her I was going to be on a plane in a few hours,

and I could holler her message out the window
as I went soaring past the moon. She said,

“Please ask him to send more gentle and
interesting people here from Spain.

It’s so awful here, I will be
going back to Venus soon.”

 

(Originally published in The William and Mary Review)