The Magician

For Gary, who I hope is still out there.

It was obvious to even the magician down on his luck,

filling his cup with the beads of glories,

that no fight was worth resolving with words.

His hands trembled from the winds

coming off the ocean, the rattle of change

his one true accompaniment. 

I passed him huffing and puffing,

chewing on our disagreement like cud,

disarmed by the drowning of my senses.

What was I thinking, that the shadow

shivering in the alley was anything

other than a space-bending saint?

I turned back, remembering that

anyone struggling without asking

to be saved is remarkably brave.

The coins vanished, words were 

brusquely exchanged,

and I remained inconsolable,

traveling at night to a distant bench,

filling the fountain with woe.

For where your treasure is,

there will your feet take you also.

I went back, deflated from the weight 

of so many broken words,

and waited for you beneath the canopy

of shimmering light. Lighting up

yet another stick of delicious,

the magician passed me by,

and stopped to ask my name.

His name I still remember,

and the way he asked for a cigarette

struck me as fair, if the going rate

for a cigarette is fleeting company.

His cold hands cupped the flame

before he scowled and,

ignoring the precepts of gratuity,

threw his cigarette on the ground.

I saw him stamp it out.

Then he shifted, 

smiling with his lips sealed tight,

observing the shades of my face.

In a flash he unveiled his teeth,

and the white stick, still unlit,

came tumbling out of his gums.

How I laughed and laughed,

and felt my mercurial cloak

crumbling around me.

What was I thinking,

that the shadow in the alley

was the one needing saving?

You found me
dumbfounded and ecstatic,

and I guess that worked

because when the magician
parted ways and wished us well,

you seemed to almost glow.

That simple sleight of hand,

if only he knew 

how staggering his gift was.

How seriously

we had vexed each other
felt like a poor use of breath.

We gave up gazing into

our distant, telegraphed,
hopefully-not-soon
but certain separation.

Then I held you close

(so long as you were
near me I kept you close),

our cracked cup overflowing.

Slander

I am compacted trash.
I have dyed the tips
of my hair black,
I have thrown
my eyelashes
down the sink drain.
My lips have craters.
I rub my eyes,
I rub my eyes.
Am I this limitless?
My hand spreads
slander like fertilizer.
I do not defer
the great denouement,
I race towards it
with my tongue
wiping the windshield
of my face.
I tramp on tramps.
Rubbing ointment
on past transgressions
fills a new balloon
with hot air.
My manners
are rank, rotten
and swollen
with swallow.
Soon enough
surely one of us
will have forgotten.

a penny and me tonight

Your compassionate camera
drops anchor at your navel.
Flashing blue-green
as the bitterness comes
streaming out of you.
Between the pillars
of flood and found,
I wobble some,
and raise the flag
pale as your cheek.

What gives?
Is this the height
saints tread upon,
that frayed the margins
of my meaning
and melted the letters
into a sticky confession?

I see the road,
that twisted road,
and hope no one
starts up the construction
before I am set on it.

Cranes are packed
away deep in the night,
the broken bits
of massive steel skyline
loaded onto the truck,
plucked out
of the panorama for good.

The empty form
filling up the warm
spacious indentations,
I think it will be here a while.
How you tried to warn me.
How I insisted on playing—

I eat my prophecy
with peaches and cream.
My sickness is nothing
more than a waking wet dream.

Safe of Mind

Actual flight of kind

hearted afternoon.

The twin peaks

of ribbed smoke,

rubbing against

each other

without agitation.

Life is an exercise

in temperature control.

Lucky to live so far

from either pole...

We have so much

distance in us,

stretching out our skin.

If safety becomes

an exercise in 

keeping others close,

how can we be safe 

for all the distance?

Manufacturing the Call

How can I say,
the lust of hope
amplifies.

Besmirched
by nervous
anger

and fit to
unravel
the tightly-tied

party line,
my parchment
extends its hand.

Smoldering fingers
rake the back of
my neck.

Abandoning
this web of warmth
and my abeyance

requires me to
sit a while longer.
Until again

it is time to leave
the ones I love,
following blindly

the plan laid out
for me, rather sure
this is for me—

how else
would I be able to
abandon, abandon, abandon.