old fish

An old man lies in bed with a tabby cat
resting at his feet.  For the moment
they are alone.

The doctor has temporarily retired
to his charts.  The family
has said their goodbyes.  Life slowly tiptoes
out the door.

Staring at the tabby, the man recalls
the old sayings and thinks
of a cold morning--several years ago--
when his kitten fell from a tree.

He thinks of how the kitten rose
and shook its head
after a few breathless seconds
of stillness.

For the moment
they are alone.  The man asks
the tabby in a flat whisper,
"What's she like?
Death, I mean."

The tabby regards him
with unblinking green eyes.
It slowly responds,
"She smells like old fish."

The old man sighs.
Sits back.  Closes his eyes.
Maybe he's fallen asleep,
but it seems a dry hand
rubs his shoulder and he breathes in
a familiar sour stench.

He smiles.

iridescent wings

Amidst the pain, 

it feels like her body has distorted

into fun-house mirror shapes.

But when anonymous sterile hands

place his wailing crimson form into her arms, 

all sensations transmute

into one singular motion

of one tiny belly that draws air 

through one tiny nose.

The focus of her thoughts is so finite.

She nets it like a butterfly

before it flits away 

through placental confusion.

Clutches it to her chest for days,

eventually pins it to a square

she cut from a cereal box. Sighs wistfully

as she places it in a chest 

with a few choice polaroids

and his first pair of shoes.

She closes her eyes, then opens them. 

It is the night of his twenty-first birthday.

He stumbles through the doorway, 

drunk on visions of manhood, embarrassed 

when he notices her rise from a nearby armchair. 

But she only wants to press a dusty piece of cardboard 

into his hands and guide him to his bed.

Wants to tuck the covers close, to watch 

the flashing reflection of iridescent wings 

as his eyes flutter closed.  

the trestle

you have engineered a blueprint

for traveling west,

you lay down iron 

and wood,

light the dynamite,

force yourself through 

jagged mountains,

for you,

there will never be enough smoke 

to fill the pink horizon,

as for me,

i can feel the barons 

snatching up landscape,

i sense the pleasure they take 

in pressing lit cigars 

into the map at my feet,

subtle suggestions flake 

from the fiery coal 

they shovel down my throat, 

i tell you 

that sometimes a train must leap 

from the trestle

just to strive for its freedom,

weightlessness hides
in the air,

it wants to whisper the soot 

right off of my cheek,

as for you, 

you won't let go of my hand,

you keep pressing down tracks,

you tell me 

that gravity is a governess

who will protect us both

as long as we keep 

to the earth

tinny and tuned

i speak on my phone in the green lit lawn
and throw buckeyes at my shadow,
wondering where they fall when they reach
the regions without light,

the mouthpiece snatches my voice
and gives it back a split-second later,
tinny and tuned to the listening ears
across the lakes and cornfields
a state and a half away,

there are seconds that no one speaks,
save for the wind ,
and the phone repeating the wind,
but without its force
or cool caress,

i am set to join the impossible space,
to fill the gaps in the shadows,

there are moments when i wish
i was a sound wave
transmitting into metal towers
at the center of cells

The Purpose for Watering

Tell it truly. 
Elsewise, lead them all astray.

***

chop off the i
and personal actions become parables,
or imperatives to the personal few,

instructions for future mes.
or whenever ago yous,

objects leaning heavily,
like trees,
which given enough time--
become the purpose for watering,

were it so that we had truly done so,
i would say i am no one,

but we are all one,
until one leads us all to pain

slow me down

the dull and aching simple theme--
it hurts so bad i cannot see,
the luminescent gray white flesh,
it only mattered once it broke,

slow me           down,
slow me                down,
slow  me  down  me  downward
spirals in the dark,

i wish i had someone along
to hold my head,   to feel my heart
to tell the blinking lights apart,

i need you,
i need you,         to go away,

to press the frozen bag into my eyes,
and ice it has its sleight of hand--
the way it makes me think its time,

just slow me down,
just slow me down,
just go away,

the fear it flies around my head,
and jitters rhythms through my neck,
i squeeze my fingers,   lift the split,

it never leaves        me,
dont leave me,
just go away

brain blips

spicy food sends the same brain blips as fire
but i'd rather lick a pepper
than a red hot coil

and it ain't the danger that make the difference
but the complex lift
of what i can and cannot take

the oozey lava-like spectrum shifting further
and further and further

and i'd rather tear my muscles
lifting my sweetheart to the sun
than pull my body out a pit

and i'd rather a hound crush my fingers in her jaw
than type it down the carpal tunnel

and all this prickling pressure builds inside my skull
and makes me want to scream

but i'd rather face it running circles round a trail
than wait resigned in a sagging couch

this is when i was happy

hit refresh and hope for something different
or something the same, i mean, but better,
still got that mix of sand in the swimtrunks
and shells sifting through your fingers
but this time with a vintage photo filter
and a snorkel cruise comin’,
the dolphins getting sassy in the air
water dripping all velvet off their noses
as they crest over top your head
but hey i’ve never snorkled
‘cept for in a Magic School Bus
game i used to boot up
on the old gateway 2000, dust
coughing out its vents and
all i’m sayin’ is it’s hard to recycle nostalgia
when some of it not actually real
some of it just that shit you pull
out your ears in bed when you can’t sleep
and you think
this is when i was happy
(with the dolphins)
and even if it ain’t true,
why can’t i have it now?
and why are all these red numbers
on my window so distracting?
and why
a dog ain’t your dog
‘til you post her running into a tennis net
on the internet and i wonder
what those webs been up to since i last checked
(3 minutes ago)
and sometimes a little pen on paper
the only way to escape
though i can’t seem to scratch out a rabbit hole
same ways as before
with a metaphor about the bird cage
and it wouldn’t matter if i could
cuz that metaphor is floatin’ in the zeroes by now
and everyone could and would see
the self-riffiffication
that is if they bothered to read the damn thing at all:
“i’d like to like that thing you posted i remember liking
but i’m a little busy right now with my life"
(looking at cat gifs) and
do i have a life?
and ain’t it just a little disingenuous
to blame your apps for this when everyone been struggling
with their grains of salt in the sea
long before Zuckie-B made his advertising scrapbook?
i could dredge up old memories
and write your ears off
(eyes off?)
‘bout how i used to snuggle with Ella the Beagle
under my parents’ bed
and i could gloss over how i used to do that cuz i was tired
and scared and bored with shit even at 6
and i could point to those moments
when i used to put my ear to her belly
and practice breathin’ the same way she breathed
and i could lament oh my god
will i ever feel that way again?
but hey
there’s an honest-to-jesus dog
lying on top my legs right now
and she’s got a cone round her head
and it’s makin’ her snort
cuz her wet, black nose is smooshed
against the plastic
and there’s some old drool
sliding down the ridges toward her eye
and her legs keep kickin’
when she sees a rabbit in her dreams
while she goes ruh ruh ruh
in a high-pitched not-so-intimidating squeak
and eff this
i got some petting to do