(laughing on my bedroom floor.)

“what more can you guiltlessly ask for?” 

not a goddamn thing.

(caught in the crossfire, a real life massacre of something pretty.)

kiss me, now, under the glass and electricity.

this light won’t hold still forever.

in the morning they’ll ask us to explain,

but we’re getting a tad old for the guilt,

and maybe that’s how we should start living.

we’ll catch a train out of town, first thing,

we’ll talk our way out of any chance in their convicting.  

we’ll live like outlaws,

with a fresh main street, and chambers fully loaded.

(written for a brother, by the light of my back porch.)

drink in bars you don’t like,

get into fist fights.

kiss the girl you know will break your heart.

sundays are for driving with the windows down,

and listening to early dylan albums,

drinking from the bottle by the wharf,

and swearing to new lovers that you’ll

hold fast through the end.

tell your mother she’s pretty,

she needs to know that.

remember your father strong and without regret.

there might be a day you’re unable to afford a roadmap home,

carry it with you wherever you go. 

(another man’s treasure.)

today,
we burn this ship whole.
it was sinking anyhow.
i’ll grab the letters you wrote home during that summer in spain,
tie your pendant to your neck.

tonight,
we swim.
those rafts were helpless anyway.
the swell is rising, darling,
but so are our spirits.
when we make it to shore i’ll call you home.

(If only, sketched at an unlit kitchen table.)

Let’s pretend that you took all of those tears you cried in April and jarred them. I spent the months that followed working with my hands, and I think I scraped up enough cash to buy us a desert. We can unscrew the lid and pour a sea, just so the the sun can kiss at its surface.

(Such an inarticulate dance.)

I want you to sleep in my bed,

                     stay until morning.

          to keep you warm through the night.

I want to sing your name in the shower,

               tell my friends about your laugh.

          somebody to ask for your middle name so I can answer them quickly.

I want you to love me like your favorite magazines.

                     tear my pages,

                     tape them to your walls.  

I want to hear the story.

              visit the town where your grandmother was raised.

              fix the creaks that kept you up when you were a kid.

I want us to write our own story,

                   take our time.

                   enjoy it.

(Written barefoot.)

i asked the bartender if she remembered how henry kissinger had died.

“it doesn’t matter,” she told me.

i took that as truth, and on the walk home i counted every streetlamp i passed.

there were 37.

so 37 days i waited,

and for 36 nights i slept with the front door unlocked.

i considered living forever,

i studied the cracks on my hands.

(Headache, not heartbreak.)

The wind stopped by today and left me a present. It was a bottle, with a note neatly folded inside, that looked like it had spent time at the sea’s surface. The cork was still intact, and when I popped it, it let out a sigh. The script slid out easily, and when I opened it I started to read:

Angelina,

I know we’re a long ways away, and as time grows longer too, this might become more grief than it’s worth. I don’t want you to wait. You’ve got a pretty face, and some of the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Take them, and make yourself a queen.

As for me, I seal my fate in this glass container. I’ll push the stop in and throw it off the pier. It’s been those kind of days for a week straight. My hands shake, and my thoughts haven’t made much sense to anyone.

Signed Always with Love,

Catastrophe

(Through a tape recorder.) 

she 

was the

back road

to a

second chance 

ridden on a bicycle i bought 

off

lay away. 

a gift

to myself, 

for holding tight

just another 

year. 

it’s been 

four.

i’ve lost

friends, lovers, and family,

and 

i’m looking 

to keep

the 

one’s that

are 

still around.