Breaking, pressing, slipping beneath undeserving skin
Shadows inhaling secrets
Seeded wounds painted unconsciously on the landscape of me
Remains discovered beaten and burnt unspoken exhaustion
Strangled mumbles splintering my prospering expectations

he sat on his porch
with a bottle of cheap gin
there was nothing to do,
but forget the little of him that was left

forty-six years
and still nothing made sense.
no one teaches a man (about real *******)
about humanity, its hypocrisies
and ego and greed.
death and the Devil.

in fact,
no one really teaches a man anything at all
check book balancing, dinner table manners,
how to properly shake a hand.
none of it's any use.

he took a pull of the gin
and looked up as it started to rain.
"I know you are there."


                            a moment passed.


the thunder replied.

I remember the last time we talked
you called me on a Thursday afternoon
I asked how you’d been
         you were fine
and if you were still working
at that bakery in West Hollywood
         no, you had quit 5 months ago

we talked for twenty minutes
but all I could think about
was how we used smoke *** in your bedroom, watching
cartoons for hours
or when we’d walk to Aldaberto’s
for horchata and chicken burritos
and the days we skipped school and drove to Malibu
to smoke cigarettes at the beach and drink Mountain Dew
mixed with ***** we stole from your dad

you asked me
how I’d been
I lied and didn’t tell you
how I’ve been drinking more lately
and that I still sleep on
the same side of the bed
as if you were going to show up one night and crawl in next to me

and yes, the dog is good
we now go on walks every morning
and yes, my diet is still poor— I know, I smoke too much
but I’m glad you’re doing fine

we talked for twenty minutes
and I hated it
because I didn’t
everything felt like it used to
except no one said ‘I love you’
before hanging up

and it’s cold outside
on the dock
the dog is chasing mosquitoes
and I am drinking cheap wine

I wonder if my mother knew I’d be
as ugly as the world
black and blue and green
but mostly black
and I think back to high school
when I aced calculus
and made out with Ashley in the back of her Jetta
but I’ve always hated math
and Ashley died drunk driving her Jetta, I think

the dog and I head back up to the cabin
for another bottle of wine
as I walk up the steps
I can hear Hank Williams on the Silvertone
             “my bucket’s got a hole in in it
my bucket’s got a hole in it”

and they're all kind of
broken anyway
she's nice
but I
just blow it out of proportion
most of the time
I sit in my room
trying to forget what I can remember
and settle

you’re standing on the front porch
with puke on your shoes
and wondering why you even went out
and where she is

you remember when you first made out
and how her mother loved you
and made you turkey sandwiches
but her dad always cleaned his guns in his tiger camo shorts

you move away for college
you have it all figured out
but she cries on the phone
and you can only hug her once a month

then after three years it all ends
because even when she visits she is still sad
the last thing you say is ‘I love you’
and you haven’t spoken ever since

inspired by Gertrude Stein*


Wood turns hard and shows its spaces. This is less convincing. If it spoke more no one would listen. It is solid and we don’t fall through. It reminds there is no remembering.

The pieces don’t touch, just spaces and they are put together. This is what is done without thinking and we still remember. If something is seen and nothing more than that, it should seem normal and grey.

A flag is innocent and spreads. Its colors don’t move and are divided and smoke pulls off more. If it is done where the whole is partial, leave the tab.  

The grey, the color grey, needs nothing more and never asks of anything.

Overalls can be hard, where wool socks are underrated and tired. It stays this way.

How can something so gapped hold calmly? Not because there was a touching, but because of something less. The blanket is blue and grey and holds if nothing more than that.

If hands are obvious, if hands are obvious and touching and hard, still no one listens. If hands are obvious and so is wood, there is nothing more.

Blue is guaranteed. Blue is guaranteed and so static, but ready.

the mountain
            burns
while dogs and demons
trade souls for feather and bone

lapis lazuli
face down
             on all fours

the herd     moaned
three legged
broken

& the shepherd spits
           blackgold
off
silver tongue