The radio is dead, he says, and
With the windows down, only the rush of
Air soaked with red soil, rivulets
Amass in channels on the dash and
Stifled footfalls collected beyond the walls
Of houses with ribbed roofs ebb
As we gather the folds of the road.
The vineyards are dying, he says, and
On the outskirts men claw at their necks
And wait for the clouds to migrate west
Through the ripe reek of oleander, air so thick
And viscous that sound fastens to it like
A fly strip; time rests
Here, he says, and the
Houses flood in July, when the
Water finds no escape, only waits for
The sun to return so that it can go home
And in that
I drag myself out along the sheet
Clutch a wrist and
The stars in your veins
Are going supernova.
Crumple and fold
Into me, say
You're not coming back
Not this you, that when we meet
It won't be again, but the first time
Two people who recognize the
Sound of each others names
Scraping out
Where lips tear open
And our voices compete
With suburban static for an
Open frequency.
I remember
In the dark, they were
All grit, from mouths full
Of glue, and
The way we endured each visceral
Detail, like
Listening to people fucking
With the volume turned up way too high.
In the dark we bloom
Gape into
Hollow point petals
And on the inside
Innards shredded
It spills
Out, one word
Implodes, bursts into
Blossom
And here
Crumpled, we are
Rotten
We decompose
And in our ruins
Something grows.
In the solemn aftermath
I am a ghost collecting shrapnel
The vestiges of bullet sheathes
That blistered as they fell;
Through the bitter fallout
I stumble, a gun-deaf mute
Accumulating skeletons,
Possessed and resolute.
Beloved, I am ridden
With deep apostrophes
Slender streams, leaking out:
The thrusting roots of trees.
The grip of sodden cotton
Climbs along swift slopes of skin,
I am perforated -
And slowly emptying.
Palms glisten with the sap
Of splinters, so exhumed;
Beloved
I cannot find the exit wound.
We are acid rain
Taken root in desert's breath
Expelled from storm cloud wombs
To salt the shores of death
We are forest fire chasers
Waiting to ignite
And you you are a writer
Who does not write.
We are long-distance swimmers
Treading amniotic fluid
Compressed by warring currents
Swept out and left for dead
We are knife enthusiasts
Ready for a fight
And you you are a writer
Who cannot write.
We are deep sea fisherman
Using limbs as bait
Bleeding out a breadcrumb trail
Losing water weight
We are bounty hunters
In pursuit of white light
And you you are a writer
Who will not write.
I cannot use the verb
So instead, I'll use the thing
Build bridges with playing cards
Make cradles out of string
When the gutters burst their banks
Take refuge in a sailboat
We commandeer Styrofoam
Two bodies and a raincoat
I cannot write a sentence
In only sinus rhythm
Assembling toy airplanes
Telling limb from limb
When the earth sweats
Wearing hot liquid clothes
We jump rope
With a garden hose
I cannot thread syllables
Like beads on a string
Or a length of rope
Through a tire swing
Instead, we take our orders
From voices in the drain
Let's played hide and seek
With the rain
This is not the sum the parts
It just can
Feeble the din
as dark settled in,
the soften collision
of moths in a tin;
of sounds I could isolate:
the tiniest feet
and the stiff linen flap
of wings to a beat
and the crush of each lung
against heart, against gut,
and the slice of raw tin
in each visceral cut -
but of all of these noises
the most loathsome one
was the silence I suffered
when noises were gone.
The radio is dead, he says, and
With the windows down, only the rush of
Air soaked with red soil, rivulets
Amass in channels on the dash and
Stifled footfalls collected beyond the walls
Of houses with ribbed roofs ebb
As we gather the folds of the road.
The vineyards are dying, he says, and
On the outskirts men claw at their necks
And wait for the clouds to migrate west
Through the ripe reek of oleander, air so thick
And viscous that sound fastens to it like
A fly strip; time rests
Here, he says, and the
Houses flood in July, when the
Water finds no escape, only waits for
The sun to return so that it can go home
And in that
I drag myself out along the sheet
Clutch a wrist and
The stars in your veins
Are going supernova.
Crumple and fold
Into me, say
You're not coming back
Not this you, that when we meet
It won't be again, but the first time
Two people who recognize the
Sound of each others names
Scraping out
Where lips tear open
And our voices compete
With suburban static for an
Open frequency.
I remember
In the dark, they were
All grit, from mouths full
Of glue, and
The way we endured each visceral
Detail, like
Listening to people fucking
With the volume turned up way too high.
In the dark we bloom
Gape into
Hollow point petals
And on the inside
Innards shredded
It spills
Out, one word
Implodes, bursts into
Blossom
And here
Crumpled, we are
Rotten
We decompose
And in our ruins
Something grows.
In the solemn aftermath
I am a ghost collecting shrapnel
The vestiges of bullet sheathes
That blistered as they fell;
Through the bitter fallout
I stumble, a gun-deaf mute
Accumulating skeletons,
Possessed and resolute.
Beloved, I am ridden
With deep apostrophes
Slender streams, leaking out:
The thrusting roots of trees.
The grip of sodden cotton
Climbs along swift slopes of skin,
I am perforated -
And slowly emptying.
Palms glisten with the sap
Of splinters, so exhumed;
Beloved
I cannot find the exit wound.
We are acid rain
Taken root in desert's breath
Expelled from storm cloud wombs
To salt the shores of death
We are forest fire chasers
Waiting to ignite
And you you are a writer
Who does not write.
We are long-distance swimmers
Treading amniotic fluid
Compressed by warring currents
Swept out and left for dead
We are knife enthusiasts
Ready for a fight
And you you are a writer
Who cannot write.
We are deep sea fisherman
Using limbs as bait
Bleeding out a breadcrumb trail
Losing water weight
We are bounty hunters
In pursuit of white light
And you you are a writer
Who will not write.
I cannot use the verb
So instead, I'll use the thing
Build bridges with playing cards
Make cradles out of string
When the gutters burst their banks
Take refuge in a sailboat
We commandeer Styrofoam
Two bodies and a raincoat
I cannot write a sentence
In only sinus rhythm
Assembling toy airplanes
Telling limb from limb
When the earth sweats
Wearing hot liquid clothes
We jump rope
With a garden hose
I cannot thread syllables
Like beads on a string
Or a length of rope
Through a tire swing
Instead, we take our orders
From voices in the drain
Let's played hide and seek
With the rain
This is not the sum the parts
It just can
Feeble the din
as dark settled in,
the soften collision
of moths in a tin;
of sounds I could isolate:
the tiniest feet
and the stiff linen flap
of wings to a beat
and the crush of each lung
against heart, against gut,
and the slice of raw tin
in each visceral cut -
but of all of these noises
the most loathsome one
was the silence I suffered
when noises were gone.
.
was it louis armstrongs raspy voice
or your elegant anatomy scratching
record grooves into my vinyl spine?
my left hand, a nervous needle
twittering upon the wasteland;
my tongue skipping zigzags
across your conversation.
did you dance because it was
somebodys wedding, tell me
this song was your favorite
because we trundled like freight
trains, say my hair looked nice
because it wasn't?
still, i felt electric.
now why is it i think
of you nineteen years later,
nose-choked, soap-eyed,
bated breath in bathwater?
i dont know where you are, who
youve loved, th
I'm making new things again. Varsity
is out for the year, I'm meant to be g
lad but my whole life is disintegrating
and here I am, making new things. It
's all I can do to keep breathing. All t
hat scares me is that after such a pro
longued period of numbness it's going
to be difficult to regain feeling. The ju
ry's still out on whether or not I want
to. It just feels like you've gone hom
e for the holidays and taken every an
chor that kept me here with you. Giv
e them back. I need them more than
you do.