the darkness and love of laughter

you know i used to think

poems couldn’t be funny

i was told they were only

supposed to make you feel 

something

so i’m feeling this out

i’ll say i used to laugh

like it was a concession

to life’s finer moments

sort of an intermittent hiss 

a sort of soft low rumble

but these days i laugh 

often and loud

like i’ve got nothing better

to do 

‘cause that’s mostly true

i’ve got nothing better

for getting through

than to laugh

like thunder, like mountain

as much as i’m allowed

i want every child to grow

up happy and have a home

but i also can’t help laughing

when they fall 

it’s just such a disaster

lucky nothing heals

scraped skin like laughter

so when it all gets dark

i pick apart my archives

to pull me out of patches

and prove it doesn’t 

have to be so heavy

after all

like smoking with friends 

when they decide to dig 

up an onion one of them

had planted months ago

pulling the puny bulb 

out of the ground 
in the pale moonlight 

remarking that 

it’s best to dig up onions

at night 

or years ago we played 

the game what is your biggest fear

and in sweet succession

we said losing, being a loser, 

not succeeding and 

i don’t know probably

being eaten by something

like watching a coworker

delicately pour molten cheese

into a metal container and 

catching the terror in his face 

when it nearly went all 

Pompeii

i love a great mess

like when life perfects

itself into the shape 

of a bowl of popcorn

glistening 

and you start 

to think you’re a fan of living

then you drop the whole thing

like catching the premiere

of Cyberbully in a cabin 

in northern Nevis

and when the neighbors

gave us strange looks

while we were smoking 

James had the presence

of mind to yell

it makes us feel good

like dropping a bomb in 

the basement toilet of your

first girlfriend's house only to find 
out very shortly after that the flush

doesn’t work and forget the flush

there isn’t even water in this toilet

so what’s a young lad to do except

wrap that turd in toilet paper 

and run into the garage thanking 

all my stars i wasn’t seen

and placed my poop in the garbage 

it wasn’t very funny at the time

casually she sips her chai

says it tastes like babies

i say no it doesn’t

like getting called into work

while taking your first whip-it

at 11am and you’re still tripping

acid so you pull up your starched

pants as if you were preparing

the corpse for your own funeral

and your also-tripping friend

walks with you making you laugh

even though you left the front door

to the store unlocked you walked

through that door with a goofy grin

and my boss told me i was trying

too hard that i needed to relax

like running out of noodles

at Noodles & Company 

so you tell folks to try 

Chipotle since all we have

is Company

like Louis conning James

into getting drunk for the first

time it happened so fast

he said yes yes you must drink

all the schnapps or the 

whiskey will burn

like when Noor, our dopey coworker,

took us up on our offer to come visit

and sat in the midst of our electric

enclave with his mouth hung open

asking where the girls were

like when i tried to do a whip-it

and the ballon blew all that sweet

nitrous back into my face

and Louis laughed in such a 

booming beautiful way it echoed

off the walls for hours 

even louder than his snoring

and some laughs 

make you wish you were

the funniest person in the world

so you could summon it

whenever you wanted

a laugh like flying geese

like liquid tinsel like cookie 

dough ice cream

casually she admits

i slaughtered a raccoon once

and i admit

i want to marry this murderer

my father abandoned his car

in a blizzard by the highway 

and beat the shit out of it

with a crowbar disappearing

into the wintry night leaving 

behind seven years worth of 

Sports Illustrated in his

trunk a chunk which is still 

missing from his collection

for some reason 

i love these post-divorce

stories they make me 

feel like a child again

my father trying to reserve

a hotel with that pimp-ass

pool he wanted so bad

my father embarrassed

when they brought out

our to-go cheesecakes  

in enormous grocery bags

my father whose laugh

i still hear echoing from

the mountains he escaped to

whose laugh is the mountain

i dream of escaping to

when we were young and dumb

we did some pretty abhorrent 

shit like drop each others pants

and stick our bare ass in

popcorn bowls just to see if 

it fits 

when we were older and still 

pretty dumb Louis decided it 

was more fun to do whip-its 

standing up which was pretty

funny until there was a crash

and i turned around to see him

passed out over the coffee table

stacked with glass and maybe 

it was because i was tripping 

or the way he was splayed out

but i thought he was dead

and i tried to get him up 

but that was a poor time 
to realize i was too weak

to pick up any of my friends

and once he came to

there was only a brief moment

of confusion before we were all

laughing but he knew how much

it scared me and he was sorry

we hugged but i went to lay 
in my bed
and while i was there

laughter spun over and

through me like a mobile

as my tears slid 

between the wrinkles

of my aching cheeks

Beneath the Bare Branches of the Sycamore

A thick branch,
hanging low enough
to touch & stripped
of its bark, reaches
towards rooftop
shingles.

A spider spirals
over spongy grass,
tapping the window
of my water cup,
a star-shaped shadow.

White under-bark
grasping green,
brown, withering
leaves.

Pure canopy
with occasional
abrasion, your
vaulted arms
hang with swollen
gratitude.

Your trunk
jaundiced,
rejoicing.

would you waste by my side

without hesitation

my fingers resuscitate

the broken bloom

of dedication

enveloped 

in an emerald

prism reluctant

to allow 

any arrows in

inverted night

repels the rain

and frays

my eyesight

until i see you 

again

Heavy

We sunk the ship
half a dozen times,
each resurgence
half a decibel
more beautiful
than geraniums
beneath your tongue
spelling the name
of your insignificant
other. A dress
I have never seen
you wear haunts
the doorway,
hanging around
like the smell
after a storm
my nose gathers
ecstatic it rabbits
wrinkling tethers
of ligaments
into frayed
cloth beneath
the deck of our
rest-of-our-life
dream. Our touch
so bereft nothing
even left to breathe
back into. You broke
the rules you touched
my face, I am serious
when I say wait.

Tinker

O, they never miss.
Signals, missiles, most

blazing columns
of particles twist,

transcending target.
An ember's tooth rots

in open air, capillaries
break free of their beds.

Electrical farce

of far-reaching terror

drags its hooks

through molten marble,

deriving shape.

Our virulent affections

cross wires and hiss,

a grotesque flair.

How everywhere

leaves metallic tracks

on the cool surface

of nowhere: how

desolate our desires

look when brought

out of the kiln into

the mesh of morning.

Public Lands

You guilt-trip
strangers into
softening their
step, turning
brittle heads
on their lilted
poles, exodus
of innocence.

You listen,
or stay behind.
Illegible
shrouds coalesce
the dotted line.
Dinner bell
descends,
children flock
home.

Over the hill.
Beyond the pale.
You stand
on splintered
promises.
Absolving air.
Spacious.
Clear.
For all
to reconcile.

infected

pages and pills

mounting

am thoroughly

affected

disinfected

of my 

fickle

limits

half

underwater

half

mutilated

half

missing you

whatever

my noble

mantra

did anyone

ever compose

themselves

proper when

decomposing?

riot ear

trunkfuls

of rough

sand

did anyone

take to the streets

with no intention

of returning?

i am poorly spent

when's

the head count

what's the score

following

the orbit

of choices

hoping help

walks through

the door

my money's on moby dick

still sick
and howling
i bought
popsicles
and tea
and a tv
dinner
for one
guess
it won't
be over
fast
sunlight
slants
through
the shades
and i'm
revolted
sharing
this space
with the
things
i've made

cacti

these
gentle

inclinations

are

prickly

flowers

in a hot

lonely

desert

nourishing

me with

sweetness

Yesterday

           All night the fan purred into my left ear, whipping my wax into a tangle of dead skin and wires. When I woke up, it felt like all my pain had condensed into a sickly coin, now lodged in my ear canal. Infant mewling and finger sucking ensued. I tried to sleep on my bad side, the right, the side I could never fall asleep on but apparently once I was unconscious, my body found it more bearable. My ear flared like a watchfire. I tried flipping sides, but it hurt even worse pressed against the pillow, and the possibility of falling back asleep grew more remote. My eyes were heavy— pregnant. I turned to my phone for some answers, googling “my left ear hurts,” hoping the left ears of the world would tell me of their troubles. I tried every suggestion I came across, one of which was a shower. The world said it would loosen my sinuses, and a warm shower sounded like sweet temporary relief from the throbbing in my eardrum. It happened quickly, or not at all. I was asleep again. Yet waking up again only brought more pain.

            I’ve slept in. Somehow, though my dysfunctional ear forced me awake at sunrise, and I went through the usual morning motions well before my time, I overslept my alarm by about eight minutes. I cursed, because losing eight minutes threw the whole delicate carousel of morning into a tizzy. There was no coffee in the kitchen— or much of anything, except assorted breads and a lone pack of ground beef— so I had grown used to walking to the gas station before catching the bus toward my obligations. This was now out of the question. Miffed and mostly suffering, I rush out the door to make the bus in time. In light of what I had been denied, I allow myself a cigarette just before hopping on the bus. Allowing myself— as if permission factored into it. I daydream of smoke melting the lead in my ear into ash. Ten months ago some guy hauling the garbage saw me lighting up and dropped his trash to come talk to me. He seemed apologetic— but not enough, apparently— when he told me he had nearly died of lung cancer. He was banking on something, clearly— not on my interest in his life, probably, but my interest in my own. A gamble worth his minutes, I reckon. I skipped through the better chunk of a year cig-free and on the verge of an even bigger turnaround. Sadly that castle went crashing. Wonder where he is now. The big gift to myself is foul and arid— whoever had a cigarette in the morning without a coffee, and with death in the ear?

               Some mornings, even those void of their usual comforts, the window out the bus scrolls like one rolling poem. The quaint storefronts become gradually more dilapidated. I squint to catch a new name on a tombstone as we pass the cemetery. The bigger stones are easier to read. Then, eventually, the scene becomes grass and ranch and open space, proudly marked off, praising its openness. Rusty playground and farming equipment loiter in yards that wrap around for acres. The church’s sign reads, “It’s Not Difficult to get to Heaven.” The way to the church, however, looks overwrought with weeds and bushes. A few fields over, a man stands by himself in the middle of the grass. His black garb makes him easy to spot and hard to ignore. He doesn’t seem engaged in any sort of labor— nothing to harvest in this heat anyway. He just stood there, stuck between a sea of sky and grass. Nearby, the bulls shoved each other for room. One little calf danced around the outskirts of the herd. My eyes fell dark.

            This happened. That much I know for certain. This was yesterday. I’m pretty sure it was yesterday. Only thing about that claim— this also happened today. The cauldron in my ear stirs. Skin’s gone clammy and caked with sweat. Have you seen my yesterday?  The scrolling, one field flowing into the next, has lost its edges, any sense of boundary. The day they call this— it’s a sound I’ve never tasted before. The old man with his Target hat and badge, playing air guitar with his stout fingers, won’t stop looking in my direction. Maybe he’s casting a psychedelic spell. What happened to yesterday? It feels like I’ve been on this bus all morning. I look up toward the mountains expecting them to be so much closer than they are. A westward road no longer. I’ve maybe fallen asleep, and the dream has succeeded in picking up wherever I left off. I clutch for a cup of coffee, grabbing the skin of the man suddenly sitting next to me. Stop requested. I would like to get off. Over the fields, the lifted eyelids of the sky have a purple hue. Bells are singing. Acres away from where I saw the man in black garb, in the distant center of the tall grass, there he was again. Except this time, I’m beginning to see, he is holding the calf. I didn’t know what he was going to do with it, until I did. Then my ear popped, a splash of blood burst from my nose, and my throat contracted to scream, but my body couldn’t spare the sound.

my chemical morning

a dream needed finishing

(woke up bawling)

so i took a baby-brush

to my baby-teeth and 

rattled my bottle empty

in the end i am only

thirsty like a sponge

or young tyrant

past the dumpster

the ghost of a man

who last year urged

me to quit smoking

clicks his tongue

there’s a critter

the size of a feather

on the insides

of my throat 

and there’s a reservoir

of goo pooling

in the vats behind 

my eyes

far into the cave

( i have to believe it)

there’s a flank of me

not yet rotted

a wedding chapel

all tied up in tendons

a calf wandering

for milk and honey

in here

a cut above

all the props 

i must love 

rude

to assume
an indictment
of identity
or to broadcast
doubt
so insidiously

to shut down
any chance of
speaking for
furthering
understanding

to make a guest
a public enemy
in your own
private mansion
of mirrors

ruder still
that as a friend
i left without
saying a word

of our fathers

sharing stories
of our fathers

the men
who made
their way
through hell

so that we
could meet

and tell
the stories
of our fathers

Where the NRA

Where the NRA when Philando Castile had the right to arms?
Where the NRA when they had Alton Sterling on the ground?
Where the NRA when 'serve and protect' protects institutions and property but lays waste to bodies?
Where the NRA to defend a life as much as they defend their rights?
Where the NRA to prove gun-toting, shot-shaving, pistol-tripping, glock-sucking ain't about being white?
Where the NRA though no one wants them around?
Where the NRA though showing up late ain't shit?
Where the NRA if justice is a lawful gun?
Where the NRA stuck up the ass of their white supremacy?
Where the NRA to make a stink where the shit's really been accumulating?
Where the NRA to prop up bodies as proof of their violated rights?
Where the NRA to plot their court hearings, amass bad feeling, e-mail their rabid file?
Where the NRA to give a shit about a life?

grappling with signs of good things to come

pin-stepping

overcoming decay
with a branch
of sage

deluge

dwindling smoke

look

the grocer's shelves
are stuffed
with leafy greens

the banality
of egg and bagel

a precipice

bewildered

Flaneur de Flu

Wandering past shapes of criminal health,
dragging nets of wishes that I were well,
crusted with the phlegm of lawful wealth
and bent to the search for a form to swell
into a song the shade of an organ's bruise,
falling into the pace of given-up poets,
or soon-to-be-given-up to the panel's ruse,
finding no solace above or below it,
but smack between these acetaminophen
eyes, my sight is recused, all moisture
wrung, the bed-locked hour taunts again
with aches, with specters bobbing together.
In some far-off love I may stand accused
of harboring all this pain I have refused.

Goner

How could I, when four

of my last five nights 

have peeled into shadowy 

husk, when must gets

translated into will

you will receive a missive

requesting proof of an ache 

by way of breath-stamped 

brochure. 

It's pleasure, possibly, that

bullies us into frozen stock,

or puts out the flickering. 

It was not meant for this to

invert and float. It was cold

at the stopping point. Soap 

started to taste great. I was

only bitter—

that you draped in all your

company would elicit this

waste. Have not even 

our grandparents suspected

something amiss? 

The calls, as if in a cloud,

spiked with silence. 

When our lips last touched,

was that not indication
enough?

If here was a place that had space for you

Been trying, as they say,
to do it right, right? Well
that's gone. I am. Ripped
from the imprint
my delayed dissatisfaction.
How might letters see
through the calm to reach
a rage? For weeks
I thought, I'm pretty sure
I thought, about whether
or not to dice, to eviscerate
our circumstance, to dance
out the lights. Come closer
you fugitive fairy. Mind the
blueprints— our barn, this patio,
some kinda veranda or gazebo,
possibly jacuzzi, or an esplanade,
just let me know, each or any
cascade of feathered resplendence,
it's all here. Whereas wormhole
tunnels out of here
through lavish
silk mines, and I,
feeble agent, miss
missing anything
other than you.

Smell You Later

Casually

you cross the threshold

of the counter,

committing atmospheric

robbery, clogging 

humid kitchen air 

with your synthetics, 

releasing the cooks

from their cages

with a perfunctory smile.

I am vacated:

polluted by wind-chimes,

stuck untangling the string

of a fallen kite. I turned

away from you but could 

not pivot less than full circle,

there you are there you are,

a carousel of soft-focus 

fixations wheeling 

with the luxury of a 

unicorn de-horned, 

miserable. Seemingly

in the habit of misery.

For a moment,

your eyes untied the vines 

darkening my peripheries.

Spores of no uncertain

worship mingled with
the shape of your mouth
as it left my name.

Your perfume fell
in droplets, pooling
purple, into convex
spaces, into birthmarks
the shape of a landscape
often mistaken for home.

For in that moment

one samples sweet 

everything with anything

but the tongue.

reluctance, etc

i am going
somewhere you
cannot follow

my promises
suddenly held
so hollow
soon to be
unheld

if getting there
marks an
occasional
disruption

i am torn
between an
unintended
plot and
the things
i wish i could
say
but cannot

scorching the front yard

a rapidfire knock
at the door
raises immediate
concerns with
the heat
and the butt
one of us
buttheads
must've
missed

the flowers
sung
all they could

summer's insignia

a lone gull

on the sandbar

discomfits 

the landscape

with its

idle sun

bathing

downy

shimmering

bundle

of hollow

bones

the season's

sentinel

at its most
hopeful 

post

watching 

the water

go by

no song
no mate
no piercing cry

just 

the water

going by

post-pivot depression

the tongue pressed
down suppressing
another worthwhile
smile as I embalm
my visage in granite
resolve failing the
test of distance
wrapping my arms
all the way around
an indifferent goddess
bless my seventh
sense that beckons
me onward even
if i choose to stay
these forceful fates
instrument my place
and my usual
mistakes envelop
me in the usual
lovely amenities

this is the last thing i have to say

would keep climbing
if dying felt less like
hearing his pronoun
between buried sighing
and wanted so bad
to be some kind of
outlier but crying i
mop the same old floor
and see somewhere
a future wanting
even more so even
though i adore you
and sometimes i know
you feel some way too
i cannot even hold
my thoughts
of being with you
without scalding
the corners of my eyes
do you know what it is
to be wanted by someone
who is your most wanted
and yet returns home
placating some other
most wanted man
how deep his pain
have you reckoned
that the trajectory
of our lives have already
crossed and are now
split sideways infinitum
i told myself
there was immense patience
that insufferably stretched
and sweet this was the dance
of the one i was meant to meet
i told myself these things
even sharing with you
parcels of my person
which i hope you keep
forever
what shallow entrapment
following me
with every step
i am seeking the one
who will make right
the wrongs this life
has taken upon me
that is not a charge
not an inevitability
it occurs to me nightly
that i may never
partake of this impossibility
but what i want
is someone who sees
bravery in this stupidity
who can make use
of my stubborn loyalty
some susceptible dreamer
or high-key redeemer
of my downtrodden hopes
someone keen to split
the estate of their royalty
and i wanted it to be you
but that was ill-scripted
i knew all along i was
only addicted to your
silly faces and spritely
ways what else can i say
i put myself through the paces
expecting more of myself
than of you
if you are near me
it will never get out of the way
and will keep wasting words
as mind and heart
breaks mind the cliche
to admit this saga has
no bone-
meltingly ecstatic end
to admit it ends just like this
words achieving nothing
my body the only thing
on which i can depend
memories of us
so briefly together
and the tears that come
from losing a friend

Staying Away

In blue waiting
waits your revelry:
sleep starved
and half the promise
I was when I first
started this inquisition
into your landscape.

Elastic diorama,
you triangulate
toward depraved
surfaces,
your props lavish
the horizon with
paper-cuts and
vanish.

We turn,
another week
of compulsory earnings
and gentle asides.

How come you're so quiet?

O, rotten.
My cheeks flare and burn.
By the time
you have gotten this message,
we will have already
passed each other by.

maestro mope

yes i was glad to see you

the reason for hugging

you so tight being

it was all it took for me

to not sing your name

then i went home

and played eleven games

forgetting you

for as much as an hour

at a time

but thought of holding you

floods me like fresh air

and i curse, i curse, i curse

the implements of my care

foibles

knowing seed
granted an abysmal
favor in the
breadth of an inch

i tainted spectral
waters with
untold foibles

and signed
the day away

I WILL SAY THESE THINGS THE REST OF MY LIFE

never would be disappointed

in your efforts, when effort

is an ethereal harness, never

would force you off your 

throne, never sour on gifts,

never refuse a kiss, never 

mishandle your bones, 

when the tedious minutia 

of survival dissuades you

from metamorphosis 

i will follow you up the hill,

will cradle you in the abyss,

will envelop you in everlasting

faith, will amaze, will walk

by the browning swamps,

will tell you how gorgeous,

how marvelous, how strong,

how soft, how sweet, how

you make me sing and make

me shake, and each time 

we meet again

it all comes back to me,

your chiseled nose

and life-trapping smile,

wrapping me in all the 

wonderful sounds you make.

one night too hungry

serrated edge

halves a whole

accident: resin

clots, phlegm 

gesticulates, 

a whole plot

pushed aside

in pursuit of 

a sole night's

victories.

a day brings

bravado, a few

dozen purchases,

another busted

lung-vault. 

serially slipping, 

my upslope

momentum stalls

one starving night

at a time,
testing the supposed
speed of a
free-fall.

no end to it!
and still so much
money to spend.

everything

reattach this
satchel of nerves
to hope-thing,
to wing-trope,
to any one of the
rodent-moments
that multiply
in the delicious
dark distance.

funny how
you claim me,
assuage me,
position me
just so,
giving me
some other
name.

indefensible,
i lay skin
of good feeling
over a rock,
whispering
absurdities,
taking stock
of the narrative,
attempting
to pick the lock
of your—
everything.

everything!
know what it is?

you pass
a cool body
of water,
wary
of your
wavering
reflection.

but there it is.
in the water.
your enormity.
your weightless
charm, your careless
felicity. you!
everything!