empty

eyes, hollow heart. lonely limbs, swallowed start.

sleeveless,

disheveled.

donning crusty trousers, oily cap.
cracked hands, and water in the morning.
you wish it were juice, but you never drink juice.

because every time you reach to buy it,
you hear her sounds.
her giggle, her jab.
her tease, her demand.

and for split seconds---fleeting tiny meaningless moments---all the wind of the world is rushing from ear to ear. flooding your brain, clogging your throat, bloating your chest, until you run empty-handed from the market. a cart-full left on aisle nine. for the stock-girl to put back.


she does so. swift and precisely. but not without wondering. not without inquisitive fingers. not without a long look at the automatic door closing on a sleeveless shadow.

everyone he knows, knows

he's good at gathering, collecting. he's a scavenging king. need a scrap of fabric? a spare pie tin? looking for a long lost screw? he's got bundles of discarded cardboard, stacks of assorted paper, racks of empty jars. boxes brimming with hooks, and tacks, and feathers, and twine. everywhere he looks, he sees potential. left-over bottle caps, extra napkins, old canisters. that coil of wire, this strip of leather, even those old pine cones and dried twigs. every object in sight claims a space in his imaginary garden of possibility. yet, silent they sit. organized into quiet compartments. tucked away in safe cupboards and dressers, in wardrobes, on shelves. they sit in segregated silence. they are only lonely seeds. and nothing will come of them.

everyone knows.

oh go

fuck yourselves.



when i wake to the grey and it's slow and gentle and calling me out. i hate how my mind works. in memory so vibrant, loud. selective. that night we danced till i thought i'd die laughing. that afternoon that split me open and made me sure heaven is not here at all. i know the feeling now. the truth. like all those little boys long since grown and given up. who've left superheroes behind. we were meant for flight. i look to the grey sky. it cannot be denied. i know i should be able to go up up up, swoop low, glide in grace for fun for joy for love for celebration.

to think you know something, and then become absolutely unsure.
it's so stupid.
it's so typical.
no grass is green at all.

even at this

hour, a dull orange glows up from the city's distance. fills the canyon, blackens trees, blots out buildings. we're reduced to cut-outs of ourselves.

this is the tale

tall and crisp and crumbling at the edges. worn and burnt, it's stood the test of time and fire. it whispers the ambiguous, coexisting truths. it wails in the desert confounded ultimates. it sings and swirls, it never spins. it gathers up, it cuts and widens, it divides. when you are calling out, it comforts. when you are fat and bored, it tugs. no one will ever understand its fullness. no one could ever look into the light, except through blood-stained glasses, red-streaked robes. what is asphalt and sidewalk? what is concrete? what is brick? what is plaster and plywood? there is nothing but children of all ages, grown or gone, or crying out to emptied parents, "look at me! look at me! watch me, Mommy! watch me Dad." love me, listen to me. like me, talk to me. take me places, teach me things. ask me questions. sing me. sing me to sleep.

what the

sunset boasted
and the young boy
long toward
glory
forgive us
forget us
release us
let us
be