Dissociation ...

They started with his toes.

 He said, “Hey, whose are those?”

  They went into his feet.

    He soiled them in the sticky street

      Without noticing. They took his groin –

         In mid-laugh, now, he found her annoying.

              And then they won his bladder:

                    The former emptying the latter,

                          He panicked – saw a napkin and darted

                    for it, but found himself nothing-hearted.

              So he put it back on the table.

         And tried to leave the hand, but wasn't able:

     “Excuse me, is someone missing this?”

   But that was not his voice, nor this his

 Vision from atop a soggy gray suit –

An image becoming less acute.

    And then they took his mind.

       “Look here! A man's left himself behind!”

The right time ...

I always want to die after my best day:

A day or two after, when I'm in the dip of it

Re-remembering that people are – by and large – shit

And that only my edges aren't gray.

Two days ago was a good day:

Just a friend splitting laughs with me,

Tickling my cheek dependably.

And one day ago was okay:

Carving a face on a gourd,

Making it smile the same way I

Convince myself to (excise

The mess and breathe, dear Lord).

Today fell quietly, quickly:

I laid a place for friends, took a run, while

They were being people – who smile

Like pumpkins, then cave in sickly.

Even peas taste regal with company;
These roses smell cloying alone:

What are the senses but a senseless drone

Under the need for belonging? We

Are only a species, not singles (breathe).

And the closer I am to thinking I'm one

With the herd, the more undone

My dreaming grin. Ghosts leave

Without explaining. What don't

I understand? I hate I hate I hate

How young I am: the wait

Between “Maybe they'll come” and “No, they won't.”

If I ever ghost myself, it will be

On a really, really good day. After

A perfect run, I'll keep following laughter

Over the cliff, down by snowy plovers who'll flit by in unity.

The tackle ...

[let me tell you a story:]

I sat on a bench watching bodies crash.

But when the time came to chase,

I only ever played touch. So when

we pulled into the huddle,

My teammates said, “Rush! Man,

you're being too subtle.”

I said, “What if I make the

wrong play?” “Look,

they'll take the tackle

as praise anyway.”

“But isn't a

tackle a mad,

heavy thing?”

“No:

a tackle just

 says, 'Hi –

  you're

   worth

     tackling.'”

Scissor kick ...

Run & I promise you, you'll fall.

  Open your eyes. You'll blink.

    Shift. Part of you will stay.

      Swim. Part of you will sink.

      Commit & soon you'll itch to leave.

        Leave & you will feel that loss

          Tugging your un-buttoned sleeve,

            Stubbling your face across.

                Hate & you will twitch for action.

                  Love & you will pause –– to think of

                    All the skin-shells quaking with you,

                      Living near your brink

                           & being a totality

                             Inside their own lone senses,

                               Yearning in their delicacy &

                                 Hating – so immense is

                                         Their unsureness. Huff & you'll

                                           Crave the hot meal rosing. Call

                                              & you'll hear the valleys opening.

                                                Lean, step in: I promise you, you'll fall.

Desire ...

       [I called out:]

“Everything in a moment

Feels everlasting;

The only thing that lasts

Is that it's passing.”

Every act in its own flesh

Feels original:

For you, it is, but you

Are a sailing gull

 On a mountain updraft

   That will always be

     Coming past, coming past

       Off a cooling sea.

       And your feathers will catch

       As they are meant to

       (First downy, wrapped-in, wet, where

       An egg invents you).

       Your wings will throw down as your

         Chest is muscled to

           (Spasming in the nest for winds

             Just to tussle through).

             And your mind – so secret, yours –

             Feels desires pull

             After fish, after warm nights,

             (Both older than gulls)

             While I – a man on a cliff –

           Try to find myself,

         To own myself, to be my

       mind on a rock shelf.

       But I share my hungers with

       The light trail of feet

       In the dust on this peak, these

       Eyes as I retreat,

       This line for drafted water

     (In pipes buried by

   Some thirsty man, thirsting so

Derivatively).

Another tankard of you ...

Hey, it's me. I hope 

somebody's told you 

I'm an idiot,

plainspoken 

to a fault. Does that come 

from never drinking (either

to be sober, all the time, or

to learn, 

in sugars, to be drunk

on your own folly)?

Loose-lipped and 

off of tape-delay – mind & mouth 

flexing in unison, 

a nerve-netted 

anemone – at some point, I'm bound to say, 

“you're awesome”  on impulse,  and it will 

sound  silly-thin,  so    here  are  some 

pieces – 

small but then cavernous – 

of awesome in you:

     Quiet.

          You own it –

          not loud and never silent –

          humming, listening behind the gold grass,

          stalking a too-loud deer and purring

          with patient thoughts.

Calm.

          You stretch lips like

                    a moment's worth smiling for: no

                         audience to smile at, no fear to smile away –

                    showing teeth like the sun's in

          your face, melting a breeze.

     Fit.

          You stand uphill from

                                        still. Even sitting, you settle

                                                       like a sprinter in the blocks, flight-ready:

                                        inches close and 100 yards down the

          trail. I feel bound to chase you.

Hot.

          I can't help spinning on

                    just the ghost of you: you're a

                         magnet near my skin. I feel static crackling

                    not to twine my arms around your

          channels and drink you in.

     Open.

          Maybe you glimpsed it from

          behind: story-telling, you hand spreads

          New Year's wide: fingers up like surfboard noses,

          knuckles troughing down, their orange-pink

          undersides cresting on your palm.

The galaxy could roll across

a plane like that. You –

I'm sorry, I may be

drunk – are

awesome.

Tape-mouth ...

(Try to watch this without smiling. I dare you.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=QePWGsGo6iE

You could make it so easy:

 “Come play with me.”

Life was like that in the school-yard,

When I was just out of diapers,

   Still fresh with language

     And dirt-skinned

        With honesty.

     If I had known you in that

          Fresh sanctuary,

     When holding hands was never

      Compared to the last time,

        Just done – sweaty and

           Mutual (it should

            Be so divine)

                  –

          Then I would walk up,

             Small lungs breezy,

          And without no fitful elegance

            Say, “I think we ought to

              Hold hands. Matches

                Do.” I should make

                         It so easy.

So I run ...

I

love

you all.

So I run. ...

(that doesn't make sense.)

I

love

you all.

You make

me smile. So

I run. ... (that's closer.)

I love you all.

You make me smile.

So I think of you near

when you're away: my smile's

the best face I've ever put on and

I'd be happy if it stayed. And I don't know

where you are on this arc, but if I can run faster

through, I'll graze your back, then see your face –

my      smile      will be           there      with                you.

The Repeats ...

I wish I knew who was visiting.

They never say hello.

They walk by, silent behind the glass:

They see us, but never know

          The way my fur feels on their hands;

          The way my breath sounds, close;

          The pattern that my eyes might trace

          On a face, on hair, on clothes.

No one comes in but my roommates,

And I'm not mysterious to them,

So they don't ask questions; we share the swing

In silence. We claw the hem

          Of our walls while you tip-toe past us,

          A hundred (over days),

          A thousand (or more: I'm re-counting you

          Who come back, slightly amazed

That we move, alive – distant and mystic –

Over years). But yet, we're less

than five when the landlord visits

To core a drain or patch the scarred mess

          We left in the corner, less than

          Four otherwise. And still

          Our pen could be a playground of pulses if

          Someone jumped over the sill.

A promise is a debt ...

“Once a boy believes a dream –

one itching hope – his shell is gone.”

“Then how,” a girl asks the moon,

“does he survive, thin pink, upon

that sharded lamp-light maze where

we call – waning, as dark as not –

'I'm this-and-that beyond,'

suspending sights that can't be caught?

He leaps; he falls – for our throats are black!”

“No@, dear. We shine in his head –

not tight-irised Full-Truths, but

wide-pupiled Soon-Truths. So instead

of leaving his husk to a cold night's

song, 'What if 'what-if''s will never be?',

we move his cut, sealing skin to weep:

'You're mostly dark; I like the part I see.'

Boys belong beyond their shells,

like seeds presently unopened –

innards bare-limbed, open-grinned,

ready to reach. @Feed them hope and

draw them out into the light

Where shadows cross (where dreams run free).

Draw him out, just as you are,

And let him see what he will see.”