sycophant

I read somewhere

that he is the beginning

middle and end

but within me, all I feel are

air pockets

and lacks

and wax bottles

of cheap wine

and styrofoam chips

to chew

to know that swallowing absolves me

of my tracks

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spring 2015

there was, chasing me,

a riotous figure

spinning discs in the green

all I wanted though

was an Oak dividing lawns

of blonde hair and silk sheets.

when caught by the

figure in shades of

disease and desire

she knelt beside me and

offered her chewed gum

to say, with sorry eyes,

divinity

already got away

2.20

I wonder when the longing stops-

when I retarget some other safety hatch?

siren into that distant green belt-

it feels I long for everything

nostalgic of memories that aren’t my own

of a past life

a possible life

another shell or layers of instance

I don’t even remember

what I’m chasing

because I’ve never

really known what I’ve lost

the constant is me

I’m just disappointed that it’s not electric

That we are not prongs on a wet field of instance

Conductors of connectivity

Gunpowder mouths exploding into ruin

and decay

I thought not wanting to yawn

Meant more than stillness

I thought not wanting to prove myself

Meant more than being nodded at

That we are flashes of static in a dry dry room

Devouring energy with friction and socks

These floors are hard wood

My shoes are cheap rubber

And you

Your mouth

Is a calm silence

Damp on an untouched keyboard

I thought a meeting of minds

Was reason enough to pry apart the barbed wire rims I’ve kept against my white matter

I thought a cleanly halved ratio of sick and sappy aesthetic to sad and girl aesthetic

Was reason enough to sustain the vibrating murmur of our chemistry

I’m just disappointed it’s not cosmic intention,

That I was waiting for cosmic intention

But am sitting in gas mask quarantine

two ghosts with trust issues walk into a bar

They both

In their ghastly pains

Scratch at the loose dead skins they once wore,

Share horror stories, share fables,

Some about homes

Some about wars

Some about mudslides

Some about lost belongings with name tags no longer true

They eat,

One more than the other,

The other obsessing, obsessing,

Obsessing over dried gum underneath the table

As they look through each other and check silently for blemishes

The looking becomes a search party.

The other stands suddenly,

Seemingly at attention and attentive to a far off horizon-

It seems possible,

They feel,

To reach if only the walls didn’t keep closing in

“I’m claustrophobic,” this one finally admits,

And the other, ashamed, tucks away their tunnels into empty pockets.

The hours pass and the bar closes and they wander into the street corner

Beneath an overhead lamp borrowed from an interrogation room-

A police room-

A nightmare,

Although ghosts don’t really dream, they just wander

And they trade similar recollections of pulse

But it’s just comparing scar tissue that will never be possible to feel

Or to heal-

Flat footed, but not really on the ground,

One points at the forward running street,

Asks for a sense of direction,

But with hands so obscured by plasma,

The direction isn’t a route-

It’s a shot of a cry for help in the dark-

The other stays still, floating in the flood, water rushing through to wipe away

Their delusions.

When they try to touch

They miss-

Not for a lack of trying,

Mostly for a lack of nonbeing,

As one throws a lost bone from an old broken soul.

teacher

Her feet smelled of saffron rice

and her palms, of sweet incense and thyme.

Every inch of her flesh was a tea ceremony,

a sacrament

to intention.

Within her chest she held a tenderness of living breath,

and her toes, the dust of unsettled earth.

I expanded with giving,

my soul open to light,

my breath honored, knees humble.

Between the blades of a heavy hearted back,

And the bones of a heavy handed soul,

I felt the radiance of lasting softness,

laying in stillness

as “here” swelled itself open.

Hands full of flesh and given nothing more than

the gentle ease of a currency with no value

but that which she carries on the bus

between vacancy signs and milky starlight,

I danced like one would without legs–

sideways and

entirely undone.