sleep on, my son, benign bomb boy
i have kissed enough absinthe
to know the taste of your day rising
—peaked and swooning, the conception
was a coarse ride to hollow
on friction's tickle laugh....
i am man enough to kill my ghosts—
      to the fine germs undaunted, here's a brother
      for your sister swallow, father too beaten and brash
      on a celestial spotting of time
like a frenzied swarm
galloping and gulping on their own arms
—feeding this boy slipping tendril time
  i gut the alabaster belly
  of a moon, the thick ruddy smiles running from its lips
thins my memory, sliding a dream
      into the eye—
this boy eats unchewed the tidy pieces swept to his
    spiral plate, broom handle in hand
    with fist in brush stroke whispers, the shuffle of feet,
    the sister sound of someone joining,
    and making a fatherless love out of another's haunts....

In times like these, though heavy
like a mule, impatience
forges ahead translucently
in my veins. Among
the toxins, the mercury and the broth
of hindsight, the thoughts
of tomorrow
are wasted, stagnant—wanting
nothing to do
with glacial days.

Waiting,

in pretense of patience,
as though the eye
will adjust finally to
the dripping static.
They'll settle,
I say, in the flavor

of summer. The taller
fence is tired with the repeat
of season. Stained with mossy
streaks of no particular
pattern. Wet, cold, worn
and weathered. The slats bow
outward, urging

away from their supports—born of
a different tree,
a stronger wood. Believing in a better
place (possibly next door) they peel away
like dead, burnt skin; rebelliously
forgotten organ—
obedient to their source, their selves.

The picnic basket's been
emptied. Stagnant crumbles sat
too long. Patient, muted
thing! I had forgotten
what was on the menu. Scraped rot,

death. No clues
among them. It was a good idea, really—
born of spurts of inspiration—but finally,
death,
lackadaisical neglect.

They have put the river
in a zoo
in a drowned valley.
The animals have stopped
speaking.
What trees will be in the yard today?

there's a waiting involved
as an omission of value
and declaration toward intent
that makes a seething sound
under moments and breeds
forked night peels from the
moon where the wad is
missing, I curl about the
semantics of love feeling her legs climbing up
like telescopes and can see in the distance
that holding breath
is stellar in breast, and in the other,
    this air is so small

I topple in several directions.
Spilling like peas—
across a checkered plastic tablecloth
physically warm emotionally cold
I watch green orbs,
roll across red white,
red white
tablecloth roulette

Time of
My own lust for my own blood
And the telling of the taking

Hopeless time of false spring
When hooded snows
Drop coins in my lap

Cold marrow time
Time of no smell
And no rot

Time of colors fleeing

Time of nutrient as sacrament
Foothill as farewell
And moth's absence felt

Time of spider's withdrawal
From dangling savings
Silk purses slit open

Time of no sound
And then scraping
No wind
And then howling
No breath
And then coughing

Time of vanities and pieties
Falling like icicles
Shouldered from branches

Time of bears in coma
Hornets indolently fanning flames
Underground

The lucky housefly
Who made his stand indoors
Before the doors closed in

Time of inconstant pulse
And timid inhalation

Time of rationing
And triage

Time to sleep like the trees

Sleeping wounds you
used to call them,
the mysteries of
a night's rest.
My body was convincing
    and cowardly with you—
Born to the stage,
the elaboration of ease.
And when I mentioned
pains without origin,
you gifted me that phrase,
all the lovely succinctness
I knew you for.

So our nights were secretly vicious,
and I have slept so with others,
holding hands and other
nonsense of comfort.
You could have named it
something more than sabotage.
(We were something more than defensive,
    something beyond our generation.)

I would like the sleeper of my youth,
just a movement
I made once
that rendered me beautiful.

Of the first, the scholar and critic both agreed:
Sublime content, precise form—perfectly married

Of the latter, the two's opinions would not part:
Such simplistic drivel makes a mockery of the Art

A work-weary soul found the two by the road
And wondered, What is this the wind has blowed?

Of the first, he inhaled the chill, biting air,
And confused, unmoved, resumed his despair

Of the second, he no longer felt alone,
And clutched the poem the whole way home

The consensus is that most in that place
lack self-awareness and complex emotions
the need to think about things that are difficult
(the general appropriateness of transactions or
  events)
such as perceiving injustice
or uncertainty about rewards
the pain of being socially excluded
or the sort of feelings that poets have.

Our tango is tangled,
Our mambo is mangled,
Our fox trot is more like a lope.

But all is not lost
We can count on the waltz, and we
Do, two three; Do, two three;

You keep losing the beat,
I keep trying to lead,
Our Quick Step is not up to speed.

My hand is too high,
Your foot's on my toe,
We cannot quite capture the flow.

But all is not lost,
We still know the waltz,
And we know how to laugh at our faults.

Move forward, move right,
Very good, now begin
And we're suddenly back at the prom in the gym.

and I said that we should lose ourselves in punk
and never learn the difference between love & death;
so that when I said "darling I miss the crook of your chest,"
we could smile, write little ditties about nothing,
and together ride out of the sunset.