In Which I Don't Know.

so here it is,
that overflowing empty breath,
ragged and rasping and hot.
that old face you never recognize
the first time.
those claws
pulling everyone under you
to hold you up
despite their pleas and protests -
i'm not a foundation, i'm not a rock, i'm a person.

here it is again,
that useless vacuum,
those wet blurred intersections.
those lonely spaces full of secret
primal screams and old infected scars,
and you know them more than yourself
(you know everything more than yourself).
that clinging familiarity,
that revulsion.

In Which I'm Tired of August.

it's floating in
just behind
these last lightning storms --
and the leaves won't change
and the sky won't turn that proverbial
iron grey
but we'll feel it
we'll dance in it
we'll sit by our fires and breathe
over hot cups of cider or cocoa
knowing somewhere it's cold enough
to see that breath before rosy noses
somewhere
notebooks and pens and brand new shoes
mean something is changing.

In Which La Vita e` Bella, Truly.

this body is creation,
perfect as
anything on display at the Louvre
or the Smithsonian --
rivals the mystery of painted smiles,
the depth of starry nights.
one day it will belong, will deserve
inked skin stretched canvas-like,
heart propped on velvet under glass,
polished rosary of phalanges strung above
marble brain perched on a pedestal,
ears pinned in rows like
butterflies or beetles, dried hard
but lovely.

In Which I Give Up.

i
can't
write.

In Which I Miss Being Able To Stay Up All Night.

ain't no comfort here, oh no.

ain't no good-time-girls tonight,
no whiskey shots and no
fireplace stoked, 'cuz
ain't no warmth inside
this shanty town this time

ain't no comfort here, not here
where that breeze blows hot and
the Big Man's the only one who'll
give you a ride

well, ain't no music here this time,
boy, ain't no
jazz, no swing,
ain't even no blues hangin' 'round
these crossroads tonight

ain't no comfort here tonight.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Johnson_%28musician%29#Devil_legend

In Which My Skin Feels Like I Have a Fever.

can we just live in
arms, please?
in my arms and yours,
wrapped
wholesome and warm,
and never leaving you
nauseous from your thighs
to your ribcage
aching from your scalp
to your fingertips,
never leaving you burning
bones to skin or
shaking in between --
never leaving you at all?

In Which Music Is Influencing Me, Again.

pounding, that beat
slams,
that song hits with
every dark or dusky word,
with every
lung-wrenching riff,
each cymbal crashing like
eyes clenching closed
or wounds sewed shut,
the very sound is body is
arms-legs-neck-shoulders
thrown hard against
walls of air or
your own life,
brain against skull --
the only struggle you have
left within you,
inescapable and
pounding.