gosh have i fallen hard this time.
i think i bruised my knees
and scraped my elbows.

it feels good.

this is for you both in a way

today i walked a little lighter
and it's not necessarily a good thing.
i guess you could say
a weights been lifted from my shoulders
but instead of heavy dread,
its your companionship.

im wearing a suit that zips in the back
and i must arch my body like a bow
to rip it off.
but its so humid
that the suit sticks
and i must tear it from my flesh with my nails.
im drowning in my own skin.

we had so many plans
but those have been thrown away;
its all in the past

it's no longer you,
it's somebody new.
i want to know how it feels
in between his arms
how it feels to be touched
and kissed
by him.

calling out to you silently,
seulement pittoresque
can. you. hear. me?

i guess i'm gonna be a little honest

and say i miss the way your face feels
in between my hands;
the short quills of your porcupine jaw
rough against my raw, baby palms.

i'm pretty sad we can't
touch lips, petal to petal, whenever i get the urge
or stroke your cheek,
just 'cause,
while you're driving.

i can't look into your eyes
without doubting a single thing,
because i don't want you to think
that what's there is more than we have
and i don't want to be mistaken
that you feel more than you allow.

it would be easy to terminate
what we've got going,
but even if we can't be together,
why waste a second in love?

we can't form exposed parenthesis
or increase the surface area of skin in contact

but you can show me your world
and i can show you mine,
at least for now.

it'll be a shame when that stops,
too.

i appologize in advance

hello, old friend
we meet again.

the funeral

It was a beautiful day for a funeral.

Awkward hands in pockets converse and leave their hideaways to meet briefly and shake. We all gathered around the hole where two servicemen stood at ease.
Five siblings sat hip to hip in inadequate chairs. One of five stood up and sang strings of pretty prose. She spoke of her father, the deceased. She spoke of his selfless sacrifice to his children. Her words rocketed me into reverie; A premonition of the future.

I was her, speaking of my own dad, another of the siblings. All the words she spoke emanated my own view of my father, working countless hours just to make ends meet. All I could see was myself in her, feeling every emotion that slipped passed her lips.

My eyes stung.

The remaining four siblings were solemn down the line. Once the service ended, the wind began to whip and I thought maybe it was his spirit escaping finally from its bodily confines.

Another of the five siblings handed out white roses—the sign of acceptance. She gave them to the children and grandchildren to place on the casket. I knew when I saw my Dad’s turn get close that I wanted to place mine right after his. So I did. My dad placed his rose, and held his hand against the polished wood for a breath’s length. I followed.

Later in the day we went for a walk in the forest to spread half the ashes of the siblings’ mother, who died some years previous. There were thorns aplenty and the branches reached for pieces of my dreadlocks and clothing. We walked along abandoned train tracks consumed by undergrowth.

I saw a small branch that had twisted itself intricately and perfectly around another branch. I had only seen something like it in photographs. Its intricacy reminded me of love.

My cousin found an antler on the ground. It had five prongs. She told of how her deceased boyfriend would be proud.

At the pine grove is where we spread the ashes. Five siblings had become four, but we spread the gray dust anyway.

“I love you, Mom.” The White Rose sibling said.

My father spread the last of the particles, and we left.

crazy

someone veiled the night sky,
replaced it with a copy.
but the copy's a filter;
gaussian blur.

the ribbiting street lamp
pokes fun at me.
all i do all day
is speak to credit cards.
hand to card to hand,
no real connection.
but the old mop
has your silhouette,
your hairstyle,
and there's some feeling there.

i clean the floor with your head,
loving strokes.
i fill your locks with dirt and debris,

until
the sweets in the store container
stop screaming.

chemistry

there's a pile of shovels
next to a couple
of gas cans
outside a school.

and infinity looks good to me.

your face is sculpted butter;
a saturated fat.
you contain no double bonds
comprised of only singles.
your structure packs in
tightly.
stacks and stacks.

who knew poetry
could make such
accurate
connections.