i hate this empty house. 

beneath every floorboard,
a void
a yaw of wretched midnight 
clawing footsteps, pacing
and pacing
echoes banging
barbed and noosed
by nothing 

and the only thing louder 
than the bathroom fan I never turn off
than the drip of a sink, the tick of the gas stove
than the sleepless train yards and slick black streets
than the desperate, hollow orgasms in a co...

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sometimes I feel like my long hair
what hides and reveals 
what some version
small and soft 
lives tangled in the unkempt locks
where it takes work to get to my mother's eyes
her cheekbones
a hair's breadth between. 
it's the distance between being looked at 
and being seen. 

shorn, I feel the shame of nakedness 
rather than it's splendor 

I feel the parts of me worth hiding 
in t...

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a loft 
somewhere
sweetly scented 
as the morning dew draws up
and out
lithe against valleys
hung low
loping chariots 

phantom fingers in grass 
long and sweetlike lovers waving 
in the wheat.  

it looks like rain again tonight
hues heavy on the bay 
but my heart will stay sated
thru the gold nestled in your eyelashes

and I stop breathing,  

hoping it can be forever

to w...

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the tracts where sleep ran 

ducts thru navel 

smoky rivers, freshly stained 

while we wait, fidgeting in a

 too-big waiting room 

too big for just the two of us 

too small for all the thoughts 

too small

for the silence . 

it smells like a barber shop 

and the fixtures buzz idly 

bright, but flickering 

and I remember that 

you can't smoke in public anym...

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you make me feel

like a bee in a dandelion field  

nourished and sunny

and

scattered to the warmth of the wind

that carried the ocean to the plains 

to above the lakes

to the cracks I'm the sidewalks

 where we met

where we keep meeting 

where you held my hand 

and keep holding 

through the rain

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I can hear it

the bending wire
of the armistice: 
twisted and tined 
plucked high and fine
and bitten
for a taste of fast and cheap iron

a prickling thrill provokes 
like a high water line
makes me wonder
what chokes 
and what it takes
to be full
to be whole 

instead, 
the best I can do is a side of myself
and a garnish of mint 
(for color)
even while raked raw
naked,  id ...

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that full moon mood 

cold and bright cascades:

a twist, a press 

as a touch, wrung wistful 

grips shaped gasps

goosebumps, brushing thistles

a skyward buck

a smiling howl

and a cooling, bliss-ed

descent

 again. 

this is what worship

should feel like 

mouths mapping a collapsing curve 

drawn closer--too close 

to a white hot center

spel...

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a weighty fog

like tinned milk 

sweetly opaque 

hiding the feathers and tears

traces of a an empty place called

heaven.

these beads rest on hats

press down on weary brows and

weave between the fibres

of gloves

of family 

such a slippery thing, this life. 

like a rain you can't catch on your tongue 

but the taste weaves between your

thoughtful mol...

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what a tongue flick. a comet-tail
a touch of poison; a fluid sail
lithe
raised upright in a misty wood
to catch winds for long-abandoned boats 
a land-loch, waiting for heaven 
waiting, like I would 

pressed against a door frame 
mounded from earth and ash 

a home writ upon 
these hostile lands:
a space of teeming life 
mistook greens and greys
blotches and heightened braille
 on...

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if I stare at the roof long enough
would i let it's ink
roll down over me ? 

my shape, pliant and waiting and 
rutting
tilting toward the certainty 
the cooing touch and strain
spreading stygian weight 
pressing down, down, and do...wn

coy and waiting with glistening teeth
brushing, roiling voice 
weight like a purring cinderblock
hands, too many to be real 
too deft to be human 
...

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