If I'm not sad, I can't write.
If I can't write I become sad.
If I do write I become more sad.
I'm sad,
why can't I write.
I'm writing,
why aren't I sad.

It's amazing how fast the pathway

went from bursting with life,

to cold and crooked and blue,

to freezing and broken and black as the constant night.

I’m gonna fall from the tips of your fingers
beads of sweat off your forehead
oak logs into ashes
shaken leaves in autumn

I’ll pour into flower beds
and nestle with red wigglers
Tell me about the slow stretch of your shoulders
and the scars on your knees
Lets pound them into perfect soil
roll around in cover crop
I’ll probably need you to pick flowers out of my hair
when I fall asleep in the dirt on summer nights
I might need your raspberry lips to kiss grass stains
off my overalls
and sun-kissed shoulders
but in the morning I’ll praise
the way you lay still clutching my waist
like holding tight to the tops of trees

I am a man: little do I last
and the night is enormous.
But I look up:
the stars write.
Unknowing I understand:
I too am written,
and at this very moment
someone spells me out.

gentle, like the
                         dips, and
                                         grooves,
and soft protrusions of a skeleton,
but more alive, like muscle tissue
over my skull; woolen proteins
fortifying my ears against chill,
keeping my hair stretched taut
against my scalp and finishing
with a flourish of purled texture
cascading abruptly to my neck.

i liked it because it matched
       the lining of my jacket,
       it tied my reds together,

i liked it because it made me
      stick out like a sore thumb
      looking to catch a ride to
      San Francisco or detention,

i liked it because it caught me up
      in the eight legs of disapproval,
      (even though they respected me
      in the utmost, they still tripped
      me something fierce)

i liked it because it taught me selflessly
      never to wear it again.