Run Some

Held you
not for long,
here is my
unwaivable
promissory
note,
here are
qualifications,
quail eggs,
quasi-plausible
frustrations.
Here is patience.
Permafrost
melts to
my darling
obscene.
Held you
in the crux
of crumbling
narrative,
posing for
radical gifts
like a modern
nativity
scene.

Flemmebé

Singed
out of choral slumber,
fingers wick
an exact sequence
of numbers, exhales
arithmetic, falsifies
testimonies.
Fire in wholesome
attempts get bent,
blowing gas-bubbles
toward inevitable
reverberation.
Went by way
of expectable delay;
left the burners
churning.

Variations on 'Together'

To get her

thinking, make way

through rain

and fear of caving

to unravel months

of premeditated

pleasure.

To forget,

we gather numbing

agents in our 

basement and set

them spry and loose

through backlit

landscapes.

Into our ether

I venture:

would it hurt 

so bad 

to set yourself
aflame?

Together—

that tying of time,

minced feeling

rolled in the taste

of your name, more

or less an answer,

maybe more

infested with 

reproachful

blessings 
than we could have

ever guessed.

To get her

scared, the nice

kind, more 

or less convinced

of this, moving

into better views,

brighter spaces,

kinder mugs, 

to gather brave,

to gather change

and cash it in,

getting warmer,

calmer, snug
in the sweater
of her voice:

It looks like you.

It smells like you.

Is it— 

if there is any place

you want to go,

one day, together, 

we'll go there.

One Good Thing

Waiting on— a bed, bungled
proposals, castles, omelettes, well-
met trials, thumbtack trajectories,
bouquets, silos, asylums, silver
medal relays: a trip, a slip of wet
chamber waits on skin-sting, feathers,
pebbles inside alcoves, a crease
in the late-night letter, an auspice, aria,
moonsong mouthtrap, a grumbling furlong,
forgotten oases, homeostasis, a humble
offer, a home, a retreat, a charge, an open
coffin, audacious bunches of grapes, ground-
lings, water rings, whatever the weather brought
out of hiding— a warp-tale, a worm-soul, grand
jesters, navel-gazers, an oxygen alchemist
convention, hair-binds, staring contests, lemon
rinds— waiting on a pawn, a boarded-up
evening, a card, a draw, an auspicious cloud,
a transparent stream and dusty laws,
lavender, wrinkles, awnings, wings:
but done waiting on one good thing. 

what we tempin

whose mannequin vesper
altar goes bump in the night

and desecrates orchards with
overgrown specter lyceums

taunting ripfire hymns toward
quantifiable letdown choir

lets letters infest feces laden
larceny and concave lullaby 

i know what i am but what does it do

if no one yells timber
will i still hunger

if no one's seen my sternum
can i alleviate this burden

if she don't want attention
what to do with my affection

if i cast it into a furnace
will the right words surface

if i ever catch these obligations
might i finally find the patience

to pursue my wants clear-cut
and emerge from this diligent rut

if you're trynna make me trip you'll have to do better than this

that's th party line, tug
it as needed, plug yr latest
prideship, make many cute
faces and execute th slumberin
brute inside you, forge yr
maiden name
onto an imperceivable stone

an maybe then
you won't feel so alone
but that's no glitzy marquee
spellin out yr bruised news
it's no headline migraine
congratulations
it's a girl

who'da guessed
th pearl would clam up
an lick th sand that spills
or that alpine storylines converge
over fanciful resplendent banquets
no goods granted from th perennial quest
none ingrained yet

i'mma migrate these feelings
an make measured overreactions
to th spidercracks of these fissures
and fall fall fall so far far far
till i at least resemble yr star

conversations from the brink

here's the thing

i know this
and that you
have that
and that we
both are
totally in
love with
our thises
and nobody
knows
that

but still

this
and that
doesn't
change
the fact
that

i adore
you
and think
you're
wonderful

and
that i
want
you

i'mma need this body for growing old

it is not too meaty.
my skin is fairly soft.
but it is not your
swiss-blade: knock it off.

it's not your forklift.
it's no automated screen.
my brain's in the mountains.
my body's stuck between.

it's no trash disposal.
ain't a sentimental mop.
books turn to boulders,
shoulders askin me to stop.

i'm okay being borrowed.
it's fine if i'm gettin paid.
but back's growin crooked,
this game's been overplayed.

they'll thank you in your grave,
and smiling pay for your lunch,
and break your dependable body
if they depend on it too much.

twice enticed

you sexy walking scripture
let slip your lip-ring infernal
breath let's appease demons
cradle each other's temples
tighten our hips to the lid
and whisper what we've done
in our heads into our ears
tonguing our reservoirs
with the flick of a fiery worm
i know i've been a bore but now
i swear it's effortless here on out
gimme a bead of your baby fever
and when we're off the clock
striptease this suggestive behavior

Bach, My Heartbeat

Though flogged and cloudy
my nervous center throbs,
spacious days self-ascend
on the drift of Bach's bow.

Scholarly impressions guess
at riveting translation sessions,
but deliberately underestimate
tenor of withheld inflections.

Through deflated afternoons
baited late into sluggish night,
the heavy pour of best attempt
is caught between bars of flight.

This spell reeks of succeeding,
as if it were nothing to even try.
Seminal sound floods out fear,
tribulation bows to Bach's cry.

what desire done lately?

yeah i'm askin
been quite taken
with th cool spool
of plausible threads
plummeting comets
turning pages
in my comic book
brain conveniently
sailing straight past
yr name but reckoning
you know what's on
n when you heard
this song you asked
what it's called
and whenever we
sweat we have a ball
so c'mere i gotta sweet
secret and a radical plan
someday i'll be a strong
man n pick you up
whenever i can
for now i guess
gotta cross some crucial
prerequisites off this list
wanting one good thing
tho rejecting nothing
n particular
see you on the brightside
and smell ya later

prayer for wildfire

flame be quick
flame be gentle
flame be worth it
surely you mean well

fire go proudly
fire claim what's yours
fire crackle loudly
burn burn burn lord

burning for safety
burning for the earth
burning for deep concern
we burn for all we're worth

instructions were made to be followed

obey, ok?

it is
well provided
for

a delayed
entrance

spot
of silence

dropped
in the midst
of the play

mister
melodious,
where
you going

with your
fingers
laced
like a
log cabin?

with lead
shoes?

and why
glance
over your
shoulder?

no one's
following
you

these friends far away

some persona
sunk
that hardship,

thought
rather seriously
of testifying,

with a bullet
to grind.
aquatic

shadows
seek
restitution

for
fleeing
heat,

emerged
dripping
with bruises.

agenda borealis
over
yonder

boredom,
scissored
to scraps.

a lizard
that turned
out to be a

bird
picks at
deficiency,

stunning
upset.
beaming trees

from a bird's
eye view
conclude,

the sap
embalms
the bruise.

Useful

Insatiable

gaze set loose,

lording over

immediacy

with unabashed

gate-polishing.

Some portraits

turned out 

to be mirrors.

Unclear

what terms

I am on 

with the noose.

Some days,

I feel my strength

in the wave, 

a squeeze of shoulders,

some hundreds

of minuscule interactions

that save, that save.

The point of this:

my tenderness

feels less obtuse

when I am lucky 

enough 

to be of use.

Quit Hitting Yourself, Quit Hitting Yourself

It's like that,
but the bruises
are your best self
being boned,
drudged, left
to spoil alone.

All miracles
are so quick
to desert me
but my hells
are a thousand
times themselves.

Engulf ground
you walk on,
raze every tree
you walk under.

Super-sleuth
for clues that
brain (tender
pulsing tooth,
press to feel
the pain)
was correct
to encourage
regress.

I don't
know why
I can't let
it let.

From a distance,
everything
beckons.

But within—

well.

Find
out for yourself
what manifests
repair, and
what was made
to remain broken.

LOST INTEREST PLEASE RETURN IF FOUND

i had a nightmare
the poem never finished

i had some
wrinkled
up bias-proof
paper that put
me away

gave
me a chance to say
how i've been
feeling

i can't get there

no more eyes
in my cereal

no more wants
deep-fried
in can-not's

see you later,
simulator

in a while,
somebody's
smile
is gonna
get you good

petals of a white rose

In 1942, Nazi Germany, The White Rose was an intellectual resistance group. Founded

by students, they wrote leaflets that called for resistance and opposition to their government. In under a year they produced six leaflets and thousands of copies calling attention to the monstrosities being committed by the Nazis. In the spring of 1943, three of the most prominent members— siblings Hans and Sophie Scholl, along with Christoph Probst, were captured and sentenced to death by guillotine. They were killed later that day.

It opens with a whisper whirling from the center, a few ripped heart-sleeves, a taste 

of stranger, vapor on verge of the atmosphere… enter chlorophyll and the chorus 

of thorny dissidents, their barbed tongues snipped and covered with trembling 

handfuls of dirt, planted in the trans-atlantic shadow of a previously underestimated

nightmare. It begins with a hushed breath, a sluiced stem, a fresh heap of false starts and stooped shoulders. I am the counter-creature in the chicken coop. I am castle of smoke and fire hose. Hanging out garments on a treble clef, shoring up cracks with a pen, insistently pouring with fragrance of white rose.

They said, We are your bad conscience, inciting violence in the attics of the unaffected. Grace, it seems, is a storm-switch set to kill karma where it stands. When close at hand we witness our habits molt, leaving only husks of our honorifics, complacency thickens into russet-red clots of thought vacancies. Accidents in the rear-view mirror are more intentional than they appear. We say no more complicity. A word demurred— complicity the national anthem, no more stretching our voice for them high notes. There’s a hate crime stuck in my patriotism. Ain’t no one coming for this skin. If our axis be shook and wobbles into war’s irreversible momentum, and I unsheathe my eyes to come face-to-face with conscription, will I consent to assemble in the rows, or will I stretch my voice for bravery like white—

no one knows the outcome. Not a day begins without breaking existential bread. 

Heralding a kingdom once held in the tufts of my breath, it does get exhausting— 

the overstretched armaments, diffusing of the antisocial situation, our trepidation 

and differentiating invigorating a leaflet with words that stem from the underbelly. 

Was there some use for my perennial description? From the folds of a sky-sworn

emblem, out the mouth of a beheaded intention, a hard line materializes. Body knows better to be agitated than adequate. Pawns of royal schemes advance with splintered opinions in tow, bending their hopes in the shape of a white—

lonesome. How to come clean with a vision, when Judgment Day ends with Why?  

Sheet of subterfuge and checkered history clings to the scarecrow’s shoulders, 

but it never wanted to be the hero— it wanted those winged things to dissipate, 

never wanted it to be great. Let arms withdraw from the race. Our glacial inferiority

quickens. Bread-crumb resistance is for the birds, but that won't get you out of bed. You arrange your own audit. I forget what I meant when I said I’d do my best. Even now, at my most mystical, no part or thing parted from this body makes even a modicum of a dent. Most days looking back saw that I couldn't even last to try. Led astray by the finger-crook of winds that blow— caustic, frantic, repudiation of white—

ice floes and moral infancy crumbles with unfazed velocity. Violence in the workplace leads to violence in the marketplace leads to violence in the heart place. Mascara runs like a motorcade. All I wanted was to be a stranger. Not your hypocrite or honest attempt. Not remedial. Not amenable. Not pressed to another body to reprieve this paralysis. Rigid, frigid. I could snap like a glow-stick. When I catch myself praying for a finale as grand as the canyons from which I emerge, even I know that my worst, the underpinned forfeiture of this fateful nomenclature, is still a step from what I was yesterday. It’s gotten so heavy. My metabolism slows. But the holes in this head are dark, delicate beds for white rose, white rose, white rose.

petals of a white rose

It starts with a whisper whirling at the center, a few ripped heart-sleeves, a taste 

of stranger, vapor on verge of the atmosphere… enter chlorophyll and the chorus 

of thorny dissidents, their barbed tongues snipped and covered with trembling 

handfuls of dirt, planted in the trans-atlantic shadow of a previously underestimated

nightmare. It starts with a hushed breath, an invitation for fresh heap of false starts

and stooped shoulders. I am the fox let loose in my chicken coop. I am the castle of

smoke and the fire hose. Putting myself out continually, persistently quelling myself

with the dew from a white rose.

They said, We are your bad conscience. Grace, it seems, is a storm-switch set to 

kill karma where it stands. When close at hand we witness our habits molt, leaving 

only husks of our honorifics, complacency thickens into russet-red clotting of unfinished

thoughts. Accidents in the rear-view mirror are more intentional than they appear. 

Complicity is the national anthem and we gave up reaching for the high notes. There’s

a hate crime stuck in my patriotism. Ain’t no one coming for this skin. If our axis gets 

shook and we wobble into war’s irrevocable momentum, and I unsheathe my eyes to 

come face-to-face with conscription, will I fail to assemble in the rows, or will I speak 

for bravery like white—

No one knows the outcome. Not a day begins without breaking existential bread. 

Heralding a kingdom once held in the tufts of my breath, it gets exhausting— 

the overstretched armaments, diffusing antisocial situations, our trepidation and 

differentiating invigorating a leaflet with words that stem from the underbelly. 

Was there some use for my perennial description? From the folds of a sky-sworn

emblem, out the mouth of a beheaded intention, a hard line materializes. Body

better off agitated than adequate. Bright noses shepherd the rest past indifference,

bending their hopes in the shape of a white—

lonesome. 

petals of a white rose

When close at hand our habits molt and leave us with nothing but husks

of our previous pleasures, we have no choice but to perch on a nauseating

rung and recalibrate the angel. Even when I find myself hoping for a finale

as grand as the canyon of my isolation, I know that my worst, that kernel

of my nature and my ingrained forfeiture, can only keep up with the heels

of phantoms which preceded me. I go beyond naming. Noxious cliques

and categories go press themselves between blank pages. Sorry for this 

disguise. I wanted to be caught. Turns out the sweat was dew from a gone-

sinking garden. They say don't be a stranger, which is confusing: stranger

is all I know how to be. Swirling guilt and disgrace, poorly built so that 

a couple stray looks risks disassembly, I withdraw from the good fight, good 

night, it was fun, my stunt as a recognizable someone. Wanted white rose and 

instead got a dose of my truer nature. Wanted to know how that air tasted out

there but can't see past my hair. Wish I knew how to adjust for this unshakable

weight but it's got me scared beyond restraint. Pretty images masking petty 

storylines. Understand wanting nothing with what's ahead. White rose quelled 
out of reach  once again.

petals of a white rose

Forbearance falls from the sky in sleek white flecks, coating our days

with false starts. Judgment Day ends with a Why? It gets exhausting—

the armaments, diffusing of the asocial situation, the differentiating,   

categorizing, the corrosive mind sciences that explain away certain

obstacles, breeding others— I marvel at this daily toil, and wonder

who is handling— or slips from the handle. Striving for what I do well,

I toss thoughts like bricks into a dissolving wall, losing ground in pursuit

of some sky-sworn emblem, some promise of past excellence, a ghastly

grip on the mollified system. Our glacial inferiority. Sheet of subterfuge

and checkered history clings to the scarecrow’s shoulders, but it never

wanted to be the hero— it wanted all those winged things to stay away,

far away— watch it now. Arms withdraw from the race. No matter how

near always separate, distinct, like standing outside a building during 

a fire alarm, every room buzzing with light. Bright noses leading the pack

through the storm, shedding their thorns, bending their hopes in the shape

of a white— at the entry, you are your own audit— the unsightly blots of 

your best attempts percolate to the surface, your brave residue subdued

and scraped. I tell you now, well ahead of time, that nothing I distributed

imparted even a petal of progress onto the scheme. I tell you now that most

days I could not even last to try. Caustic and frantic I, arriving to the point,

fracture my eyes to visualize the pointillist portrait of a public unraveling.

petals of a white rose

It starts with a whisper whirling at the center, vapor on the verge of atmosphere… 

enter chlorophyll and the chorus of dissidents, their barbed tongues snipped and

dropped from the infidel rafters. Grace is a storm-switch killing karma on the spot

where it stands. The forecast this year is the silkscreen of your hands. Accidents

in the rear-view mirror are more intentional than they appear. Not a day goes by

without complicity. Expecting least but making most. Not a day begins without

complexion of white rose. Complacency thickens into russet-red clots of half-

intended thoughts. A droplet spurs a subtle ripple. Insert contemporary expletive. 

Ignite extenuating circumstances. Faith goes first to the fire. I turn within. Ain’t

no one gonna come for this skin. And when hour of conscription comes creeping,

I wither to think I should assemble in the rows. Or do I go by way of white—

no one knows the outcome. I’ve known that lonesome. Better than having some
body moored in my seasick harbor. No kiss for paralysis. 

no motion at union station

smell of lemon
and fish
as I trip
coming off
the escalator
reevaluating
my threaded
aesthetic

warming up
to whether
or not it
matters

i
could care
less or
couldn't
or shouldn't
go there
or haven't
been taking
those vital
voluntary
actions
they call
pleas
for a
pleaser 

blame more than bad

you lack tact
ical positioning
and social
conditioning

even
brushing
your teeth
brings
dissociation

dripping
deadlines

lugubrious
little
priorities

count the ways

for all the days
you stuck with me
you never knew
how frequently
I held your name
on my tongue
you never knew
the litany of ways
you charm me
you may have guessed
but you never knew
you drew me in with
your bright hair
smiles everywhere
your spirit delights
wish we could fly a kite
or play truth or dare
make me feel like a kid
who wants to show off
lift some boulders
squeeze your shoulders
and like a diamond
I want it rough

the wide wild waves of an unremarkable sea

(you) caught me slippin
itchin scalp again takin
names for naught exercisin
my sight - oh ligaments -
you never change, deluge
accompanied by a bugle
w/ deluxe mammalian
metronome

WELL
round and round
the clock caught wind
tore it stored it within
made retrieval evitable
made mouth-ache
a permanent fixture
creating doubt
o'er entire enterprise

violence in the workplace

she said,
i don't 
wanna be 
a snitch

as her
mascara
ran
like a
motorcade

closing

malt vinegar
and an enormous
cardboard box
of wine

grease-lift
and mustaches
of salt

unnerving
oven

wails
like a siren

water
rises
slow

-

a soda 

can opens

from a 

part of 

the house

you have

never been

before

and you

know there

are other

people

awake out

there

petals of a white rose

appropriation makes millions
how bout that

and the court cries
and the blanket fort falls
and the day bloats
and the cat curls

my till runneth over
and the brain's clogged
with white rose

white rose who knows
of what you're capable

and i'm still picking
my nose

scalp's a hot-bed split
skin like letting another
pipeline in
it's not getting any better

more you learn how to grow
more it feels good to shrink
more it hurts to look at
white rose

for those who don't know
they, those petals personified
handed out vital literature
then died

for speaking out
for speaking from within
for embodying bravery
for weaponizing poetry
for exacting righteousness
for beheading fascism
for assaulting empire
for falling pristine gorgeous
like snow petals
of an emblazoned resistance