I've come to the conclusion
That my life's a wreak
Poetry strewn all about
My house the biggest mess

So here I am in the middle of the den
In a pile of poetry on the floor
A desperate man with phone in hand
Since I can't seem to find the door

I call up a Psychic
I call up my Shrink
I call up the local Priest
To ask them what they think

They say there is no hope for me
Through the static on the phone
Right before they all hang up
I hear...boy you're too far gone

So I grab a hold my bootstraps
Pick my own self up
Determined to have this problem licked
With prayers and major luck

Starting in on this poetic clean
One thing that I found
I wrote on just about anything
That I had laying around

There was poetry on party napkins
On Chinese take out meals
Tiny poetry on tiny matchbooks
Even on banana peals

Poetry on the chandelier
Poetry on my cat Floss
Poetry on ***** dishes
I wrote with spaghetti sauce

Poetry on the mirrors
Smiling back at me
Poetry on Seinfeld
Across my T.V. screen

Poetry on the kitchen tile
That's never seen a mop
On the doors going in and out
And places I dare not look

I started cramming it all in boxes
Lining them up and down the halls
Soon had them in every room
3 feet deep and 8 feet tall

I made 15 trips to storage
The biggest one that I could find
Feeling now it's nice and safe
All packed tight, warm and dry

When it all was over
Feeling relief from that major chore
Set down in my den, took out my pen
And started writing more...

this heart is so dead cold
running from place to place
burning lovers like hotel matchbooks
toss them in the building fire
it's my funeral pyre

Sheers of shimmering gloss grace her torso.
And I have broken her bones,
imploring that I love her so.
Blueberry lips belly the cold;
hold her too deep, hold her I'm told.

I.

He says Call me Mr. G.
G for Gore, Greed, that Green.
An atypical stoner
with hair wetter than his mouth.
With more ******* than a pound,
he says, With an understanding of
all the suffering in the global delusion
that is the Earth. Mr. G, his name.

Oily brunette, Mr. G., would smoke
Marlboro Green Blend -- menthol --
and spit shot out between stained lips
after each extracurricular exhale.
The saliva would land, tremendously,
and puddles of Rasta shooting stars
would lay, stretching across concrete galaxy.

Hazel eyes invaded and shamed him,
for he wished to be green, like life,
but only envisioned a contradiction:
death (see nature),
for which he learned to embrace, stoically,
like a shepherd of an endangered breed
meant to die among skewed perspective.

II.

This house could be mistaken
for a cinderblock purgatory;
between color and absence of,
eternal and temporary.

A raptor laughter purged the tension --
he abided by no accommodation of civility.
As smoke followed his hyena howl,
the landline lay suddenly of purpose.

Resin raided the clunky, black buttons;
a voice was whispered like a blue phantom:
*******' cheese, pineapple, pepperoni
-- no, extra ******' cheese, extra pep --
Sure, add some more pep with your driver:
he, she -- honestly, man -- they better have
pep-in-their-******-step-you-feel?

Minutes passed like sentient matchbooks
dropping towards a skeletal fire.
G threw the phone across the room
and, like a disenchanted drunk dance,
his words wobbled over each other,
I ordered a 'za, a pizza for the layman.
About thirty, probably thirty-one
minutes, that is.

Passing me the flower-stitched ****,
I ****** in one, maybe two, three,
blasts that I swore
had some sort of nano-insects
bite and burrow into the holes
of my sponge for a throat.

Wringing my rubbery neck,
watching my words leave my toothy cave,
I found out that G doesn't believe in beer.
Believes in souls but not beer,
believes in green men, not beer.

Alcoholic splash is what we all need,
at times. So I told him the obvious,
I'm going to get a case of
(Insert your ****** choice)
and I'll be back as soon as possible.

G stared at me and made a guttural noise,
Do whatcha please, I'll stay here and
protect us from vampires.
You know, blood-suckas.

Pale stoner vampires.


III.

The leather painted door was wide open
like the legs of ominous spider cave,
but the doors of a car
I had never seen before
were as closed as the lips of a VCR.
There's nothing but silence in these situations --
is this one of those situations? Grassy knoll?

Approaching the mouth of purgatory,
I entered with the hesitancy of a lost dog.
On the plastic covered couch,
two people sat atop the invisible cloud
above the patterned fabric
and above the fingers of time.

Blonde hair sprouted from her scalp,
raining down upon vanilla shoulder blades,
her chest a harbor for two pale, freshly mounds,
with crooked, beige diamonds in the center.

She trembled when G said, Meet Steph
-- can I call you Steph, Steph? --
Meet Steph, the artist formerly known as
Stephanie, holding up her licence,
Vanmeter, of 441 1/2 Locust Ave.

That's creepy, huh, Steph? Locust Ave?
Are you something that lives in the ground,
comes up every several years, making noise?
Has this been years in the making?
Are you bound to make noise in my house?

You know this is a house, right?
Whatsa matter, unfamiliar due to ya
living-in-the-*******-ground
or is it because you share a house,
an apartment, Steph? Is it one of those?
Pizza deliveries ain't paying the bills?

G gets up, I, a coward, approaching him
about to say -- Hold up, brother, he says.
Not another move, pulling his hand from
behind her shaking, confused head,
a silver cannon an extension of his arm.

She's here to **** our blood,
She's here to ****. our. blood.
Whether she means to or not,
I know you don't think you want to, Steph,
I know you don't mean to,
But you're here to
drain-us-like-the-Red-Cross.

I tell G that she isn't,
What have you done, G,
You need to let her go
before this gets worse.
That cliche dialogue.
Because these things always do,
cliche or not.

Brother, you don't understand these things
-- It's impossible for a godless man
to understand the mechanisms
of something bigger, something holy --
but you need to listen, G said, You need to --
she tried to move, quickly,
but G grabbed her by her blonde strands,
pulled her back towards the couch,
She swiped at his eye, drawing blood.

There was a pause, a deathly silence,
by the hair, she was rendered motionless,
Oh, no, he echoed, Love, you shouldn't,
You ought not do those things.
Looking at me, he asked me to listen,
Always remember this wasn't your fault.
Sometimes, you can't be in control

Holstering her neck with his gun hand,
G picked her up, slamming her,
head first,
into the drug covered,
resin sprinkled
coffee table.

He dropped on top of her,
Looked at me, Remember, okay?
and beat her head with the **** of the gun,
until the cracking of a larger M&M; shell
muffled towards all eardrums,
maybe even hers.

With blood,
that could be mistaken as war paint,
swimming across his jaw and neck,
and sprinkled on his forehead,
G whispered, You are free,
and I was never sure
who he was talking about.

My feet left before I did,
I was suddenly in my car
with only the ignition
and G's voice registering.
I passed car after car,
pastel metal wagon after
metallic matte creation,
not sure if I ever saw him,
not sure if he ever existed,
if I ever existed.

IV.

Sheers of shimmering gloss grace her torso.
And I have broken her bones,
imploring that I love her so.
Blueberry lips belly the cold;
hold her too deep, hold her I'm told.

Waking up in a cavern darkness,
my dreams disintegrate from my eyes,
swirl in my headspace, evaporating to
heaven knows where.

Scattered pitter-patter
drowns midnight Seattle,
killing and washing away
cluttered, modern filth,
******* carnivorous minds
into hungrier gutters.

This is the part
where the screen of my life reveals:
SIX MONTHS LATER,
in yellow, stenciled letters.
But what it wouldn't say is
how I still feel like I'm dipped
in the ink of Ithaca, NY.

If this were the indulgent
autobiography of my life
it wouldn't say that
the distance doesn't matter,
because that'd be a lie;
I feel like I have only escaped myself.

The rain swells, sounding as
thick as blood, swishing around
the veins of the city.

Stephanie dies every night,
disappearing and reappearing
behind secret doors only she can open.

When she comes to me in sleep,
she is baptized in green, head caved,
Forget-Me-Nots sprouting
between fragmented skull
and select spots of brain soil,
the flowers singing jazz
with a different voice, every time.

One time she spoke.
With blueberry lips that belly cold,
she sounds like my mother:
I am so proud of you, she statically says.
You saved me. Remember.

V.

To be continued.

I.
Well you know that I sip on my sadness, my dear,
filthy palms, filled to the brim.
And I know that you watch trains
passing by, dizzy eyed, still drunk with sin.
Your teeth reek of reality lately,
You smile facts, figures and cracked calcium.
Now, once more with cupped hands
leaking, shaking delirium up to your chin.

Well I know that I’ve missed the point, honey
I should get it tattooed on my wrists,
but you know you talk like firecrackers
so flinching gets awful hard to resist.
I make believe that I’m right like craters
make moons believe.
So I’ll comment on comets and ignore
truths popping between parentheses.

My delusion has your lips liquored up,
but I notice your tongue...

II.
You say,
“It’s fiction we live in. You play in pastels
and fake hollywood rhythms and I’m tired,
staring up at your screen.

You're addicted to this diction. My voice is lost,
screaming these words you keep stealing
and twist for yourself what they mean."

III.
Your lips liquored up,
but I notice your tongue's not numb.
Drink deep, darling. Let's inoculate.

IV.
And you say,
“It’s fiction we live in. It’s intended for men
like you, bottled, up-ended,
but I've watched you drain out in my palm."

It's this clothing, from bedpost to box-spring,
It's all wax-coats and smoke screens,
live lit-candle lasting
When did skin begin to fit wrong?

V.
So they say, one day
Or, one day, they say,
we’ll find ghosts sewed to the seams
of Fringe Wolf bones picked clean
who waltz wicked and crooked a foxtrot to show
that sometimes loss is beautiful.
And when I ask for your hand you’ll look tragic
like this dance was only ever for me
and my feet always fall off beat
Like I beat off any discreet romancing
To pretend that this dancing was
Anything more than masturbatory.
I guess I do dance the way I drink:
Heavy handed and troglodytic
And a little listless, but I always fight it.
So while you walk away, I’m drowning drunk in cinderblock boots; Toe-tapping a slurred S.O.S. like some song you kept whispering.
You keep whispers like keepsakes.
You speak so soft but
Baby, your voice sticks with me
like sickness.

VI.
And you say,
“It’s fiction we live in. It’s intended for men
like you, bottled, up-ended,
but I've watched you drain out in my palm."

Alright, it's fiction that we live in
It's intended for men like me, bottled, up-ended,
but at best I just seeped through your teeth.

VII.
I stitched script to my chest like a scarlet letter vest that attests there's no Soul here worth Saving but ******* come save me anyway.
Your voice sticks
to my ghost-sewn, sea-floor bound foot steps like sickness.
Tread lightly, my love. Let's inoculate.

VIII.
So when they ask for me at the after party
With neon eyes and harlot tongues,
You can tell them I traded this stale air in
For forest fires and tornado lungs.
Because I’ve been reading up in matchbooks
how to dance with disastrous fate,
and I'm finding my rhythm so wake silent
or sleep long, my love. Let's inoculate.

because a burnt tongue can evoke the same kind of emotions
as watching your fears go up in smoke
its not a coincidence that fireworks sounds like kettles
and that you live for matchbooks and destruction
because you love burning fingers just as much as bridges
your mouth waters at the sweet smell of gunpowder
and craves the taste of chaos
hot liquid drenches your throat
and you cringe and you breathe
and you wait for the bang
and you wait for release
because it hurts in the most peaceful way you can imagine

you don't call yourself a *******
but you admire the way
you can find beauty in pain so easily
your skin is tinted red and angsty
from the snap of rubber bands against your skin
but you crave that sting like ******
lifting you higher into the atmosphere
until you crash among the cosmos
and fall into the earth like flaming debris
and you drink in the disaster
but never choke on the smoke

you admire the way rain falls like atom bombs
and the sun boils like nuclear warfare
you've got the world in your hands
and you're clutching it for dear life
trying to hold on to your sanity
but everything you touch crumbles
into ashes at your feet

I'm sorry
I'm so sorry that the only way for you to feel
is to burn your arms with lighters
and scratch away your skin
to scar your body until its hanging by its corners
and you look in the mirror and all you see is shame
but to me, its a canvas
because from destruction
comes creation
i won't let that very disaster that you indulge in
be your demise
i promise
if you want me to,
ill help you brew new blood
ill pick out herbs and leaves
and combine them with heat
so this cold world
will never leave you feeling heartless again
so even when you watch those fireworks
and watch your life go up in smoke
you'll have something waiting for you
to savor, to release
to drench your throat and bring you peace

Go outside after breakfast
Come back for lunch at noon.
Come inside at suppertime
And even then, it was too soon.
Never permitted to be late
We ate dinner at six each day
Eat every bite on our plate.
About the menu we had no say.

We had baking soda submarines
Popular Mechanics magazines
And that was technology back then.
Decoder rings and roller skate keys
Shooting marbles on our knees
And playing crooks and G-men.

Those days we had three channels
On all black and white televisions.
Just the same thirteen inch boxes;
Nothing like 3D or Panavision.
Loved Uncle Miltie and Lucille Ball
And considered Korla Pandit a waste,
But we must be forgiven because
Back then, no one had much taste.

We could spell Kula, Fran and Ollie,
Said words like “gosh”, and “by golly”
And were anxious to see flying cars.
Many movies were in Technicolor
But you always had to take your brother
And he didn’t recognize the stars.

After school we played sandlot ball
Saturday were TV cartoon shows;
Dancing trees with belly buttons
And a local clown with a red nose.
We joined Cubs and Boy Scouts
Had lemonade stands by the street,
Matchbooks in bicycle stokes
And used bottle cap taps for our feet.

It seemed like days were longer then
And summer was slow to come again.
Those were the days when we had fun.
We built our forts and hooked up swings
Kids did all crazy kinds of things
Before these modern times had begun.

Daddy's little princess such a tarred delusion in white.
Let's forget all it's only between me and you and the page tonight.
False hope's and new found delusions  let me slide this hand up that skirt .
Maybe it's wrong but what could feel more right.

You wanted to taste the edge so I took you to the razor.
embraced are sins and found new freedoms sweetheart was it as wicked as you could have ever imagined?

Maybe I'm the worst but it wasn't what you clawed into these shoulders last night.
Cheap moments wasn't it a hell of a time.
Matchbooks of places road stops of emptiness wasn't it a dream that new a nightmares embrace?

If you need a friend it wasn't in the cards but torment is truth mired by *******
can I interest you in one last fix.

Sweet nothings weren't on the menu but the passion could have burnt us both.
I hold no remorse but understand every scar holds a memory I wont bother you with that greater good speech sweetheart it's simply goodbye.

A quick slap beats a broken desire the magic was pure no matter the cancer we shared
in backseats and empty nights regression.

I recall you although I would never admit .
Every scar I treasure for sometimes your the one that I can never forget.

I'll wash it away and hopefully for you it will be something better not to have been.
**** the stories the page always makes us bleed in the end.

Paper cuts are that and nothing more.

You were a phone number
on a folded piece of napkin
wedged inside the bottom of my purse
where the matchbooks and chewing gum wrappers fell
with all the change and lint and dried, uncapped pens

And I watched you float down
and almost miss your mark
when I emptied the bag above the trash
to make room for other things that were lately.

I remember you writing
then putting my pen inside your jacket pocket
thinking to myself, "This is it, this is really it"
when it wasn't.

Blue powder keg
          and green matchbooks
alight to make yellow red and gold
         a benediction                   in a nightmare sky
all shouts and howls
         blood moons and shrieking winds
a resistance
                  at
                  the
                  centre
of               an                     oppression
proof of concept
                   lets    you    sleep
          keeps your dreams
                               safe
                                      &fre;;
                                               &clean;
No monsters here
Let the morning saunter
                                in
Settle your restless                             doubts
and give you one more day
                     Peace, sweet one
                                Peace

To start, their brains are still sparking.
Neurons still making connections and
breaking promises. And really, I have
trouble with the denotaded dead as
these bodies simply find themselves
at rest, in pieces, on a piece of a cloud.
Cerulean clean - little apple alabaster.
Their flesh turns back to wax, and we light
their wick embodied skulls with little
matchbooks disguised as bible verses.
Embalmed emblems and bodies bodies bodies.
Cremation in street clothes, everything special with
a man in the oven, a woman in the wood stove.
Back to ground, in deep with the worms, and
all the tiny evil machines as ushers. Death, hm!
Is some moon rock sweat and blood blister mix,
sandalwood musk, a turpentine must. You'll trust.
Playing fast and loose with scripture,
magnetic movement, entombed. Dead bodies are
keeping check of clocks, and swallowing wrist watches,
and don't forget it. Dead bodies will be late if
they care to be. With their painted skin and
formaldehyde breakfast, they form riddles in
caskets, and what about the Egyptians?
Dead bodies have rust in their throats and
foot soles made of limestone. They take up
space in rafters, between your bed and the wall,
stained glass stained with afterthoughts, forget-me-nots.

COLLECTIONS

Oh the endless possibilities,all that is or will become within our sight to be touched  smelt or  felt

Personal memorabilia builds into more than recollections ,from buds to blossoming into full blown obsessions  

Numismatic  fancy word for adding another to the ***,dates or weights all pitching towards the wealth

Postcards from yonder,seashells to make us wonder,each time feeling more & more obliged to add another to our possessions

Many admire a rhyme another note always gets their vote ,passion play often the only way, sounds helping their health

Never hear of a person acquiring empty shelves,books will fill any nook ,stacked vertical or leaned horizontal,their words have answered many questions

Rag doll & a race car now turned to bunches of Barbies spinning Hot Wheels
their true beauty just another notch in the belt

Ticking of clocks always keeping time ,some require mere cases, meager to monstrous taking on entire museums

Sending a simple letter has now gone postal,finding that rare picture will make their hearts melt

Garbles of marbles across from mismatched matchbooks,their  appeal is real
as we add more pieces

Bats & ***** gathering dust,minor leaguers gained no fame ,now  junk transformed to memorabilia their distinction now unparalleled  

Avon calling the scent once a common present,not so old bottles now treated like divas

Knick or nack another's brick brack  maybe a future adorers prize
our simple junk adds some *****,past brought to present at a glance
those many baubles just waiting to be shared. R.C.  

I've come to the conclusion
That my life's a wreak
Poetry strewn all about
My house the biggest mess

So here I am in the middle of the den
In a pile of poetry on the floor
A desperate man with phone in hand
Since I can't seem to find the door

I call up a Psychic
I call up my Shrink
I call up the local Priest
To ask them what they think

They say there is no hope for me
Through the static on the phone
Right before they all hang up
I hear...boy you're too far gone

So I grab a hold my bootstraps
Pick my own self up
Determined to have this problem licked
With prayers and major luck

Starting in on this poetic clean
One thing that I found
I wrote on just about anything
That I had laying around

There was poetry on party napkins
On Chinese take out meals
Tiny poetry on tiny matchbooks
Even on banana peals

Poetry on the chandelier
Poetry on my cat Floss
Poetry on ***** dishes
I wrote with spaghetti sauce

Poetry on the mirrors
Smiling back at me
Poetry on Seinfeld
Across my T.V. screen

Poetry on the kitchen tile
That's never seen a mop
On the doors going in and out
And places I dare not look

I started cramming it all in boxes
Lining them up and down the halls
Soon had them in every room
3 feet deep and 8 feet tall

I made 15 trips to storage
The biggest one that I could find
Feeling now it's nice and safe
All packed tight, warm and dry

When it all was over
Feeling relief from that major chore
Set down in my den, took out my pen
And started writing more...

Talc is a rock that will crumble so
Quickly, it won’t recognize you
My tummy’s rumbling values
Pointing to something a shadow can’t
Ever cover even down here
It shines to full capacity

Tea set a cup in my mortal hand
Leaves are leaves when you approach them
You crush them and they’re motion
Dirt in the grooves of the pedal push
Joking everyone will be here
A change in the atmosphere

Paint stains outside of my windowsill
I throw paint at passing people
A color for their evil
You have an aura that shines with blue
I’ll give aquamarine statues
Endemic patient matchbooks

Lean all the graves toward floral hair
Dropping gave me such a chuckle

She only smokes when she’s spiraling or performing.
Usually both.
Says she loves a dramatic flourish—
exhales like a closing line,
laughs like a scratched record.

You’ll meet her at a party that’s already ending.
She'll kiss you like she’s trying to delete her own mouth,
like you’re just the eraser.
She'll leave before sunrise
because she hates how the light arrives slowly,
and can’t stand watching the world wake up
and not call her back.

If you ask what she’s looking for,
she’ll point at the exit sign and say,
“Something with the same glow.”
You’ll think she’s flirting,
but she’s actually just listening hard
for the next excuse to leave.

If you ask for her number,
she’ll give you a poem,
one with no punctuation
and a key taped to the back.
Not to her place.
To your undoing.

She tells stories like she’s double-daring
the past to contradict her.
Someone once told her
she seems like the kind of girl
who disappears mid-sentence.
She said,
“Only when the sentence forgets I started it.”

She collects promises like matchbooks:
already scorched,
still reeking of places
that almost got her to stay.

At dinner parties,
she compliments your cutlery
then slices the conversation open.
Asks what you hate most about your mother
before the bread hits the table.

You’ll want to know her real name.
She’ll say something like,
“It’s carved into a tree somewhere,”
before you realize
you’ve already said it in your sleep.

And when you find the poem she gave you
weeks later,
crumpled in your coat pocket,
you’ll swear you hear her laugh
when you read the last line out loud:
“Don’t follow. I haunt better when I’m alone.”

She’s the reason
someone, somewhere,
is learning the difference
between being worshipped
and being watched.

And when she finally leaves—
because she always does—
you’ll swear you still smell
ozone, orange blossom,
and the beginning of a very pretty ruin.

She leaves you rearranged—
not broken,
just fluent in a dead dialect
that only speaks in warning signs.

You’ll start writing things
you don’t remember feeling
and calling it healing.
But it’s just possession.
The poem wasn’t for you.
It was the door.

She doesn’t burn bridges.
She just convinces them to jump.

She never really leaves.
She just sets the room on fire
and watches who runs toward the smoke.

(And if she ever comes back—
and she will—
don’t blink.
She’s made of edits,
and she notices cuts.)

. PROLOGUE: The Ink that Bled First .

Before the flood, there was the scratch.

I wrote her name before I heard it.
Etched it into matchbooks and unpaid parking tickets,
into napkins left to wilt beside diner coffee.
Didn’t know it was hers,
only that something in my blood
kept drawing spirals
like a mouth preparing to speak
and failing.

She came not like the storm—
that would’ve been kinder.
She came like the   pause   before lightning,
where the whole world inhales
and prays for impact
without knowing it.

She wore no mask,
just twenty-seven kinds of silence.
Each with a different taste.
The kind you hum against.
The kind you mistake for music.
The kind that opens old doors
without touching the ****.

And I—
I was all vessel,
too brittle to hold,
too stubborn to break.
I greeted her like a warning label,
half-believing she was a dare
taped to the back of my tongue.

We didn’t meet.
We collided,
in a room with no lights and too many windows.
Our names grew fangs there.
Our shadows learned each other
by shape, not consent.

That was before the language turned to teeth.
Before the poems began to rot.
That was when I thought I still had skin
left to lose.


. ACT I: The Bloom and the Snare .

I found her mouth behind my ribs.

Scene I — The Recognition Rattle
She didn’t arrive. She distorted.
Bent light like a bad omen or a god’s afterthought.
The room changed temperature first.
Then came the words—not hers, not mine—
just words that looked at me
like a dog baring teeth
but wagging anyway.

She said, “You smell like sleep and cowardice.”
I said, “You sound like my mother’s third divorce.”
We laughed. Or maybe we bled.

She wore black like it owed her money.
I wore whatever I found on the floor.
We fit like broken clock hands.
Always pointing, never ticking.

Scene II — The Body as Vow
We touched like liars do—palms first, then mouths.
She bit my lip like she was testing for gold.
We didn’t speak. We intoned.
Language became threadbare,
so we stitched with sweat and gritted teeth.

She whispered: “Don’t love me. Just listen.”
And I did.

Scene III — The Warning in Bloom
Later, drunk on silence and floorboards,
she asked what I believed in.
I said: “The moment before something breaks.”
She nodded like that was a prayer.
Then carved her name into my thigh
with a finger wet from her own mouth.


. ACT II: The Beast at the Banquet .

We fed each other to the silence.

Scene I — Dinner in the House of Collapse
Autumn by calendar, July's basement by feel.
Forks gleamed like threats. A roast petrified mid-prayer.

"You always flinch before the truth lands", she said.
“You rehearse abandonment like it’s a lullaby,” I replied.
Then the chandelier blinked out.

Scene II — Rot in the Hallway Mirror
She undressed like peeling back time.
Touched the mirror, not me.
The reflection flinched. I did not.

Scene III — The Mouth of the Beast
We ****** on the floor
because the bed remembered too much.
She asked: “Is this love, or camouflage?”
I didn’t answer.
Not with her thighs around my ribs
and my own name caught in her teeth.

Scene IV — The Feast Turns
We tried normal.
Brunch, films, civility.
But politeness became the sharpest knife.
Eventually, we ate each other
with trembling mouths.
Quietly. Lovingly. As if it had always been the plan.

. ACT III: The Drift of the Saints .

You spoke, and the oceans went blind.

Fragment I — Absence Wears Her Face
She was everywhere except where I could touch.
Silence came not as peace, but as surveillance.

Fragment II — Shrine Built from Debris
I made an altar from the trash.
Prayed like a man with no god,
but a very specific ache.

Fragment III — Dream in Her Accent
She came to me in fever,
dripping paint from her fingernails.
I left you my hunger. Don’t you dare starve it.

Fragment IV — Psalm of the Drowned
2:17 a.m. diner. Ketchup napkin elegies.
Even the cigarettes burned quietly.

Fragment V — Saltwater Requiem
I whispered her name into a conch.
It whispered back:
You were real. That is the most unbearable miracle of all.


. ACT IV: The Wound We Baptized .

I made her a cathedral of spit and spitshine.

Scene I — The Naming of the Thing That Has No Name
I stopped resisting the haunting.
Let her smear her ash-lip gospel across my walls.

Scene II — Baptism by Refuse
Tore down the Rockwell print. Hung rusted nails instead.
Cooked sadness on instinct.
Baptized myself in the tub, chanting her jokes.

Scene III — Integration
Healing isn’t light. It’s grime.
It’s finding her hair and not crying.
Just breathing. Once. Then again.

Scene IV — Resurrection in the Shape of Distortion
I folded the photograph into a paper airplane.
Somewhere, we are still unspeakable.
Here—we are real. And that is enough.


. EPILOGUE: Rockwell’s Jawbone .

I painted the dream, but I used her bones.

The roast is cold. The table is set.
A dog chews the Constitution.

A Rockwell print burns in the sink.
Outside, a torn flag ***** like a trapped angel.

My America had her in it—
her ash, her rage, her hymn.

I hang the painting on the wall.
It drips. It pulses. It howls.
I leave the door open. Just a crack.
Let the myth wander back,

if it dares.


. [END] .