boom

Nobody move. We’ve taken hostages. We have guns. We have dynamite. We have a bunch of C4 wired to blow. We have coffee. We have donuts. We have a creeping sense of ennui. We have no self control. We have headaches. Somebody call the police. Somebody call the national guard. Somebody call the governor and tell ’em to stop the re-runs of Hee-Haw on Sunday afternoons. We’ve got permanent records. Just ask Principal Linksy: we’re too tough to handle. Look out, here we come.

Letter to Larry from a Motel 6 Parking Lot Off Route 212

Outside Clackamas, sparrows flutter against clouds promising rain
and I remember 1982 and you and Janine and empty gin
bottles from Walgreen’s and I wanted to write
to say I miss you and your smug remarks and bad jokes
and clove cigarettes on long drives through Portland’s outer ring.

If I could say it another way I would, but cold winds
breaking against my back and rain blooming
on my windshield erases any charity
I once lent. I know we’re through, Larry;
we’ve been done for so long I don’t think about you at Christmastime.

Larry, when I found you both, cold flesh pressed to cold
flesh amid grey angels mute to your trespasses,
something snapped and stung and tasted like chewing aluminum foil.
Infidelity is one thing, But on your parent’s grave?
Larry, that’s just sick.

It’s 10 years later and I still wear my funeral suit.
If you could see me, Larry, you’d be proud;
I grew up like you said. But why would you even look?
Memory’s gun tastes like fear, like bathtubs of gutted worms,
like hands clutching gravestones in ecstasy.

hunger

the moon
is an
open-faced
sandwich
waiting
to be
dunked
in au jus

do it
take a bite
if you dare
if you can
find a large
enough cup
& tell us
how it
tastes

my moon
melted
like beeswax
like lip balm
licked from
a lover’s palm–
salty, sweet,
unsatisfying
but ohhh
like you
would not
believe

do not listen
to what they
tell you: moons
lie vigorously
to avoid
such fates

act fast
be decisive
soon moons
will be out
of season
& then where
will you be?

moonless,
that’s where

sparse

my mute heart
consider how
the damp sun
bends over wet
grass on grey days
& know in dark
months swallows
too long for open
skies to throw
their throats
into joyous song

not a eulogy but still

what was it like, my father’s stroke,
the sudden seize, fumbled &
dropped keys & cops & flashlights
& neighbors & behind the dumpster
my father clutching his head
& then the hospital & the nurses,
the home & weeks later his
last breath a whisper or a gasp
no one heard, the nurses too
far away & he, too, gone far
& my brother’s voice jangling
across cellular time & space
saying to change my plans
as if I hadn’t been doing just
that my entire goddamn life?

spiral

it’s not
the end
but only
an exit
so try
not to
get dizzy
on your
way out

it all comes down to this

at one point
you stop trying
to impress
yourself &
just exist
one breath
after one
breath after
one breath
after another
& in the
space
between
each you
watch the
crystals form
& wonder
what thin line
keeps you
on this side