Obsolete

There on the swingset

feeding a pigeon, one fucking pigeon...

Remember

How it was morning and bright and sleep was

to physicality and kerosene one gender alone. Both

my, my, my.

An event so rare. You come into town

and liberate the feet of the teens. We

are stranded by snow.

Falling-down-hopeless alcoholics, gag a little -

force it all down, munch our hay. The milk truck had left.

I vouched for that.

It is my birthday. Bring on the razor

make love to it and take me out to dinner. Pickle it.

Arcane brine.

...

- Pigeons! For fuck's sake...

There should be starlings

You chose poison.

A Letter Kept To Myself

Dear,

It is somewhat what I imagine knowledge to be

dark, salty, clear moving, forever flowing.

Since our knowledge is historical, flown.

A monotonous coastline, endless and sagging

delicately ornamented by the moon still hanging solid.

The poorest postcard of itself.

Bats?

I was waiting for this letter to find you home.

I guess it will reach you on that waiting room,

I am too shy to stop.

Cannot derange or rearrange.

The Islands have not shifted since.

The pale bay still wearing a milky skin,

flaunting exaggerated beauty.

Topography still more delicate than history,

insisting and cautiously creeping.

Worming back.

Like a prayer for the night to last twice as long.

Those nights, not these.

Threatens to meet

Utters words known.

Tyrant.

City erodes. In time

carves out words on flesh

in shorthand,

pregnant paw.

Hunts alone.

There is the the wish

and how the wish goes

noons and afternoons.

the jackal - notochord,

has only a heart.

Names the light.

Your river, your wars,

propped up against walls

then white, throat, then slits

of different languages

- Here's my dead body

Look at it.

Something sleeping.

Tell me again where to hide.

- It is a secret as well.

Was it spring?

- Along my dubious veins.

Come closer, listen!

- Another fruit I have tasted before.

Is it about me?

- No. It is about war.

Is it about me?

- Yes. Only the part where you're tired.

It has something to do with that song.

- About the divorced father, yes.

Is there honor in this, or a point even?

- Not in me, no.

You do it to get off.

- I beat you to it.

It's because I am weak and you know it.

- ...

Knew.

- Stupid statement.

You hate me.

- Yes.

Then tell me again where to hide.

- Hide inside me.

Some Endings

Feasible vision under bed linen, you are here and you are here.

strangely enough, that '61 talkie was on tv last night - black, white,

"absolutely not". Your parting words, your queer wrangling

intoxicated, acting sober - Misfit Flat. A beer a year

would say my friend Mitch, whose dad passed not long ago

came summer. There's the sky again, as shallow as creek

God willin'. It will. We both know. Back in my bed again, red

jubilantly delinquent. I have already lost one tooth and it is

not even September. Nothing has happened under this dead

streetlamp. I am not unaware, just being aggressively fictive.

Some practical concerns include my teenage years that were

bent away from their assigned post. I forgot where and am already

starting to cry. Looking up, I make out stars and walking papers -

my very own - burn to white. Some endings never end.

To a Lighthouse

Then again. Here, the former site

of a nineteenth century shipping dock

now a concrete slab overlooking

the East River. I was younger then

[the shoeprint gives it away], time

was for lovin' the hell out of you.

Jesus preaching for the apostles

Be his light dude, not his judge!

I try to understand what he means

While setting the table for Easter

Promisse me you'll never be sad

on my behalf kid. Remains are silent.

You call and bring forth what's within

you. And that's when the missing starts.

I write you and there's no end unless.

The kid looking amazingly cool at

the back of the Plymouth Voyager.

And I do not know where to drive.

Weird Sisters

once

a treasure taken,

by ghosts

is time told.

the walls bare

the inside of

rooms also

tell things.

twice

the things gone

by chance

a You, an I.