[from a tuesday or two in may. 2013]


if i speak out loud

the poem will go away.

when my son stands in my doorway staring at me

he may as well be shouting.

the phone ringing is a gawd damn honking siren tuba shout.

it all makes the poem go away.

i try to hold onto it with the force of my mind meld gaze force

but it simply vanishes like a dream the moment before the  alarm

pops open your sleep and instantly draws a curtain on that place in your mind.

When I drop things into the crevasse

i have to reach into the dark to retrieve them.

The cigarette doesn’t answer the question

and neither does the wine.

When I go for a run I am quiet enough

to imagine the god they speak of .

I walk always with a paper + pen

and stop to write against walls + doorways.

I am thinking of the time/space continuum.

you are there in that though somehow i am not.

i am hesitant only because i am forgetful.

the old woman in the mirror is laughing at me.

the little girl is sorry. forever sorry.

all day the dog gestures obedience in the corner

but really he means to say he wants a snack

or to bite you, or me, or us both.

sometimes i stay in the house because the sun outside feels so persistent.

it’s a lot of pressure to enjoy it and be grateful and bask and everything.

rain is generally melancholy or apologetic or irritable or mad at you.

these are kind of benign and familiar which is okay with me,

except i guess when it is mad and ranting and breaking shit.

laying in bed, when I look out the window

i can see a lawn mower. when i open the window

i can hear + smell it. if i call his name he will look at me perhaps

+want to touch me. when is a window a door +

when is it a wall + when is it just window.

i put my bed in the living room by the crevassewallwindowdoor

and sat down upon it. a sanctuary is where they cannot find you.

so juxtapose or be ironic with your bedroom.

after thin, there is sometimes fat, like the snow storm of april.

if i finish this poem in time i will take out the garbage + sweep the floor.

thoughts like these are the anchors that keep me from departing forever into a lifelong poem.

time is a sequence or many sequences and all i have left are my hands open to you.


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