"Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know."
- Ernest Hemingway, Garden of Eden

How to tell you?
I spend the day conjuring the scratch of your fingernails.

Slither
Serpent
Sssssecretssss.

I would do better if i had something to be angry about?
(make your wounds a little more visible, dear!)

But there it is, little oil spill all swirling in rainbows; I can hardly
stay mad at all (the way it sleeps
and slips beside me).

"I get nothing for my trouble, but the ink beneath my skin." Amen. Aye-man.

Sometimes I hope that the food we eat has been poisoned,
that not one of us will survive the quick beat of a sick pulse.

That we will get to start over
(as food for the flies and tomatoes).

But mostly I hope
that we will learn to taste
the tasteless, the most deadly
traces.

The world ends in a cascade of club music ( Read more... )

I always mean to tell you
the same thing.

If I connect all the dots, maybe,
you will see the shape they've made?

Our conversations are constellations, star marked
and trying --

Some things are better said with silence.

If you had come barefoot I would have read you all the good parts ( Read more... )

The magnolias were flowering and their flowers kept falling -- as though flying ( Read more... )

1.

You were my Columbus.
Careless and curious.

2.

You were the map
to prove me wrong.

3.

Every butterfly net turned to cobweb,

4.

This calendar turned to kindling
(not one day
can we keep).

I wish I could tell you: how blue the bruises ( Read more... )

It seems I try too hard.