Having ...

( if you want a song playing in the background - watch this for 1min20, then start reading
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MejbOFk7H6c )

We have to imagine

          what we want

Within the bounds

Of evidence:

          I know you're sleeping.

                    That's why you don't

          feel hungry think-

                                    ing of me like

                                         I imagine you'd like

                                                                      to. For we

          Can't control what

          We dream, asleep:

          we can only plow

               the topsoil into

          The fields we want.

                         All the rest is

          Deep and set, dense like bed-

                                             rock (it quakes

                                   When it has to

                    & stays def-mute

Otherwise). Drills can make

               Wells, but they

               fill with blood. So

               We imagine:

On the surface, I see

          you smiling,

               Wanting to fly

                    Over and say,

       “God, Josh – you're lovely. How

                               Could you be

                          alone, slipping

                         into a dream? ”

All it takes ...

All it takes is a microbe –

Just one that lives,

          That knows the way

          To my brain.

     Or through these muscles.

( Or more, then: one of each.

They could grow

total and glorious

together: )

          Making my brain swell –

          So my mind doesn't know

          Why I am slowly more

          And more afraid

          Of an ocean that used to

          Make its tiding heart sing,

          Of the water that was

          The only thing

          Pure enough to

          To crane this back

          Aright on a

          burnt day.

          ( In 3 to 7 weeks

          That first begins.

     In 7 to 21 days

     This last leads in: )

     Severing the link between –

     My muscles do not hear

     My brain calling “relax”

     And, irritable in that silence,

     They pull: my stomach cobbles;

     Neck shudders; chest begins

     To tear, lock by lock

     Of red fiber; then my back

     arcs in an untempered curve

     And, at its

     furthest angles,

     cracks.

( Timed right, I could feel them

Coming together: )

     Breaking me, the animal –

     Taking my air out

     In spasms of uncontrol –

          While making me an animal –

          Beyond thought or reason,

          A living lash of soul

          Upon the senses (the peaks

          Of giddy quivering and

          burrows of sad weight

     that made me). If tetanus

     ever collects my flesh,

          please donate

          my mind

          to rabies.

Sticky note ...

                                                   Never forget

                                   where you are

  when you notice
that your hand

        has been

              settled

          on your face

for 10 minutes (

   or an hour).                 Never

         let go of the times

that show you (

 how far past

                           knowing it)
 you are here

 with yourself.

 Go to a mirror

 or a wide eye &

                                         look – or just

              reach back

                          up &

                               feel

                          your face,

                         still red warm,

                          warm and sticky,

                            contented.                                     Remember

                                  what you do to the things

                                         you touch: the things you touch

                                                                                                       Remember.

One little now ...

          [A cautionary tale. ]

This is like the sound inside:

[all] to a point: “Stick it in.” Pull, rend, score, dig, beat,

  claw – “No!” Suck a breath. Give it back hot. Laugh.

          [nothing] Huff. Roll eyes right, up. Swallow.

          “You're weak.” Shame. “Poor me.” Stupid.

    “No.” hate. Fault. Crack a neck joint.

  Apologize. Shake head. Blink.

[just] Roll eyes left. Wrist crack.

Hungry. Lick lips. No,

Thirsty. Have to pee.

Laugh at the design.

[new] Air. Hair moves, tree

  moves. Sign creaks, hinged

    on a traffic light bough. Could fall.

          [old] Won't. As with me, as with trees, some

          flex tips a sign toward enduring. “Could do with

  [too far] Some oil, though.” Lord, I think sometimes elegant,

useful truths. Still I am too stiff; I do not bring oil. I am

[& all] such a waste of me. Stick it in.

Stand slowly ...

I waved goodbye – that was the arm she bit.

But the surface was only the glance of it

(two holes bleeding & a dog sitting, calm –

I knew she wasn't, well before I stood):

“She must sense something about you –

She would normally be barking, snapping.

I mean, she's never bitten, but – you know –

She tries to keep unfamiliar things at a distance.

Found her wandering in the desert when she

Was 10 months old – nobody knows for how long

Or what happened. But she's very withdrawn.

We've been doing acupuncture, jasmine,

many things. This is impressive.”

“Yes – she's very tense. I can feel it.”

Still, I stood to leave like she was a calm dog –

And on the surface, to anyone far away,

She was. And faster firm than my arm was soft,

She touched me with her eye-tooth hooks.

The top-side is fine, but the hole

By the flexor tendons aches.

Perhaps she just wanted

to pass along the feeling –

We connected, and I think

I catch her meaning:

“It's deeper

than it looks.”

Cramped, quiet, powder-dusted cannonball ...

Hate to wait;

Hate being patient.

Does that mean I'm not?

Or just that I wait (too much) a lot?

     Hate to ache;

     Hate being stoic.

     Does this make me weak?

     Or does 'stoic' feel and then not speak?

               Hate to want:

               Hate being lonely.

               But before I had friends,

               I didn't miss them: lonelier? Depends.

                                        Hate to not:

                                        Hate unfulfilling.

                                        Am I wasting in this hate?

                                        Or might it fire me out – beyond my rusted weight?

The crush ...

Maybe I'll die.

Maybe I'll live

In your hands for a

While. I'm too small

To just call out the order

“Cherish me, soft, full of paint.”

Oh, the murder is nothing but a twitch:

Without hate (a cow's tail), without fear (a foot

Sunk bare in the grass),    just an itch and its crackling

Satisfaction. As I land, all on impulse     (to wick from your

Sweet-oil   salt-water   skin), you will rend me  or set me air-borne

     With a brush  before you know me. My God – you are beyond my understanding                    .

             Your horror, your grace (your reaction at all) makes my feet feel thunderous  just landing.

Trickle down ...

One time, I thought near

       Every window in space:

              So close I could jump, could feel the breeze

                      In my throat.

                               Needed to be clear –

                                    To know that I could be off

                                       Of the designed path head-first, then be blank

                                           And nothing –

                                              All aired, the sense climbs

                                                Back in, fresh and tender, still

                                                 And just, thoughtless as a head can be: brain-gone,

                                                  spilled loving.

                                                  Sometimes – just sometimes

                                                  My heart gets big and slow and

                                                  Every part of me feels blended together:

                                                  That's called hope.

                                                  :)

Eyes bath ...

I jump back out

                                        To that same cradled,

                    Swelled discontent

                               Twitch-quick when

                   These pins dart into me,

                                                           Doc: let them stay.

(that shaking glint –

                    I swear that I

                                 Am fighting

                                        Myself to stay in it.)

                               So real, too real

                       At first to lie

In long – ice bath

              White, those clear

                          Crystal-cracking eyes play

                    Deeper than they

                              Touch, quicker than

      They move, sharper

    Than they seem

(sliding up leg skin, smooth).

                   Around & through

                    (all you do &

                All I tremble

         Feeling). Move

     Into the bath you make.

       Tell me I dream

   The loud cold worse

    Than it is: that

 It heals what

Swells. Ground me with your smile.

  Spin your tendrils

Around my skin:

  Make it tingle.

Make me crawl

Up into me again.

Lizzy ...

I stretch-stepped down the runway

   Toward the end of that night

        While cleaners chased the dust up

           (Way too soon). And past the light

            At the end of my glass catwalk, saw

           Standing alone in that purple shade,

       Gazing, the straight-faced daughter

  Of a down-bent vacuum maid.

  Instead of turning back again,

       I reached around behind my dress

           And found a silk rose on the hem.

            I left the back a jagged mess

           Just so I could weave that flower,

         tickling soft, behind her ear.

   "Mine, your mother's, my seamstress'

Hearts all skip for you, my dear."

Dear Unknown ...

Caught my face

In the reflection of this computer screen

When it went black.

Shook my head

At these guilty hands, checking again

for a message.

I wasn't made

For this wall between us, my unknown.

I wasn't made

For this wall

They call a screen, and fill with colors

That look deep

And fast. That

Look bright and – honestly – real,

More or less. I

Was not made

To touch this wall and want you.

I was made to

Hear letters

Falling warm off your tongue

in a field, or

a hall, or –

Fuck it – an alley, full of

real garbage

and puddles

and pebbles and mud

that smell like

life to be

and death having

been & ended.

Had you sent

me a message,

it all would

have been

pretend-

ed.

Savior to savior ...

Vine.

You are mine.

 Just this time, and not for long,

   caught you hanging

    from the sky

       as wind ran fluting

      around my ears,

       a rushing song –

          some “Yoooouuuu

            areGoin'toDieeee...”

         half-truth, like

       most I think

       I hear.

          But

              then you struck

                  an arm, cut my scream: I held

                        you (dangling

                            severe as I,

                               beyond the tree rings,

                                 fell). Still faller,

                                 You hold me well

                               and tighter

                               than the air: I fly

                                  in a swing

                                       (your creak, my

                                           holler,

                                              Our

                                             balanced hour).

                                            Nothing now destroys but joy:

                                                you crack, stretching

                                                        in my grip,

                                                          while I tire, squeezing

                                                              your twining green.

                                                                No hand nor pain

                                                               feeling,

                                                                 my trembling slip

                                                                begins: our

                                                                coming fall

                                                                 becomes

                                                                care-

                                                              less

                                                            be-

                                                         tw

                                                        ee

                                                          n.