The Disability That Prevents Me From Falling Asleep While My Feet Are Covered

Who knows how it arose,
out of the periodical perio
that haunts me from the
ankle down every winter,
or from the skin-shock
revelation of toes on toes,
but anyhow my feet
aren't made for linens anymore,
they have been made
for breathing naked in the night,
for falling from the rafters
covered in boils and bruises,
and waiting for the barefoot
nurse to peel back the bandage,
lightly blowing air along
my whole body starting at the base,
and as an anti-fungal remedy
(she loves to be helpful)
pisses all over the foot of the bed.

Evensong

Bring me a sliver of redwood
with a clipping of yesterday's
newspaper nailed to it
like a missing poster,
proving you were there
the day I passed you by.

I will bring you the lace
of my shoe that I tripped
on while I was sleepwalking
past your estate in the hills
where you made the sweetest
noises out of pebbles and glass.

A jig should not always be considered a happy act

The lie was not always the problem.
The problem lurked unseen
and came out for feeding
once the dark widened the distance.
You can see me doing a jig in the distance.

The fan whips around the smoke,
funneling me with funky fumes.
It is not a net of terror.
I have kept most things intact.
I keep on with my solemn jig.

Filling up my spaces with the tartar
of total loss of gravity. Lucky
to have dropped my skeleton's key.
I thrive on the mystery.
I do a jig and multiply.

The flavor of reminiscence
goes sweet and sour incessantly,
switching off between tides of breath.
I spit it out. And master
the jig of becoming my master.

Kaleb Worst's Day Off

I rise with stuff in my eyes,

the residual goo from having

a good look at the gestalt,

and wake myself with water.

I turn soft on the sofa,

bouncing my leg to the optimism.

It creeps like condensation 

at the window, looking in.

Starvation of energy.

I loathe the refueling 

of an insatiable battery.

Sheepishly, I guzzle down.

What am I capable of,

if sleep and food and touch

are all arid afterthoughts?

The rest of it all.

Flooding the Field

Returning home:
Two girls running
to stay warm.
The tall one tears
through the veil,
scattering syllables
to the clear air
like pine needles
in the frigid wind.
Tell her we're almost there,
she tells me,
flailing her arm
at her friend behind her,
out of breath.
Tell her we'll be at the bar soon,
and warm.
I tried projecting
my voice, channeling
all of the pitter-patter
of my mental processes
into the right kind of response,
the certain type of certain.
I said to the girls
and would advise again
to any stranger in winter,
Breathing makes you warmer.

[****] On The Bridge Over The Tracks

I smirk every time.
It precedes
the panorama
of the city
on my way to work
and succeeds it
coming home.
Reckless pink
epitaph,
how has nothing
washed you out?
I think if anything
has ever been
designed
to survive
the winter,
it's the stamp
of removal
yet to be removed.
Creeping
underneath:
noises of
trains.

The Timeless Quest for the Stamp of Approval

The clock is an eraser,
making smears out of
the sketches in my mind
and vanishing the
rings from my eyes.
Out of an order
comes the disorder,
and the constant
rotation of pans
keeps me handling
it all. I keep clipping
my fingernails in case
it is important to someone.
I get lost in the music,
the young symphonies
and philharmonics,
and the whistling somewhere.
I stumble through the night
in stark light
and am blasted by the burning
mist of the faucet sprayer,
feeling less and less
as my pants soak unnoticed.
Yet deep down,
where reason sleeps,
I know I'm working hard.

Serenade

I fell asleep
an hour before the show,
sloping off the armrest
and hoping for a wormhole.

The eight graders
started scratching their instruments,
making music, I think.

I woke minutes before the show,
the auditorium full of grandparents,
and before jumping to my feet
I had a suffocating feeling

that I had slept through it,
and that everyone had stuck around
just to watch me dream.

Dea lucis reliquit terrae

So this is the death of our story.

We were overdue for a blessing,

bent and shaken out of shape

by the bullshit we endorsed,

so it's about time we foreclosed

on this shack, no more shacking up,
no more picking up our teeth in the street,

no more toll booths to enter the garden,
no waiting for the great dream to erupt,
no intolerable distance or circumstance.
I breathe you out of me.

At the passing of a train,

I see you cross your legs
with a smile

at the end of the line.
This is where I get off.

The moment is mine.

When your name drifts

out of my mouth in wisps,

I see the silver halo

of winter breath and air

crowned above you,

and I have made it mine.

Holding you in the water,

in the brief panic

before the plunge,

we are weightless.

Recollections of you

can only be used against me,
and despite my advisors

I have been exhausting my memory.

You say you'll remember me.

The only way anyone will believe that

is if you offer proof of purpose.
Prove you have something to lose.
I have seen this twice now:
from one set of arms to another,
from one ride at the fair to another.

Once you discover a cocoon

that won't stick it to you,

you can fight that legion

of demons, the ones that have
not forgotten you.

The demons that make you

bash your head against the
brick wall, that breed suspicion,

that let loose the hell-fire

of hypocrisy, the demons

that cause you to pout, tantrum, 

vomit, slum it, stuff it, 

make a sham out of it.

O insidious sweetheart.

Dressed like a flower girl

at Death's wedding,
down the aisle you walk
dripping from the saliva
of hot-blooded hounds,
flipping your hair,
enchanted
by the radiance of your decay.

For six months 

you did not bother knowing 

if there was another life

in store for us.

If it existed, you said,

by now it's dead.

Our story sweats

such savage rancor.

If I could cash in

on any karma

that I have collected,

I would throw it all down

to never hear your voice again.

As a half-learned astronomer,
I am sufficient

at connecting the dots.

Your constellation 

has become a blot

on the skyline,

graffiti on the wall

of a greater promise,

and a deep well

to draw from 

in droughts of apathy.

I have heard reports

of happiness

down the shore,

where she feels joy

beneath her tongue,

where the tulips

tangle in her hair,

where her skin prickles

and thighs quiver

and diamonds sail
out of her eyes.

Transparent as the soul

and just as unfailing,

her dress gives way to the waves.

She takes to the sky 

like a bird frightened to flight.

And you would not love to love her.