teach, ease

teach my heart

ease my soul

lean away from madness

and sit in the cool

calm

silent shame

teach my mind

ease my flesh

build a gravel road

garden

and dig, not to bury,

but to grow

to want and to be wanted in return

is a tall order

if you fake all the wanting

touch my brow

ease my tongue

corner myself at the

meeting points of

here and endless anywhere

maybe I’ll finally heal

when every last page of this book

has been filled

with the ink of perpetuating fear

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.

labor day

Captive is short for

Captivated so

Tell me more about being alone

Tell me more about feeling desperate

Tell me more about your isolated mind

And I’ll glue my body onto your destructive intellect

My eyes are framed solely on the spin room your observations violently weave

My fingers are at attention

My flesh on the front lines

You’ve got me

As much as black hole can capture cosmic explosion

You’ve got me

As much as sink hole can capture unsuspecting tender feet

You’ve got me

As much as stockholm can award prizes for most in tune with interpretations of

The Divine

Tempt me with serious questions

Then taunt me with blank face and explosive change of heart

I’ll sit still silently

Easing up on my trigger finger

Known deadly to the worst kinds of Simple

Throw me a soft ball or two

Then hold me steady and strong armed

I’ll pant at your door

Wagging a tail that’s never felt the pulse of warm blood

Until it’s felt the dis-ease of being benched.

Tell me every fear and explain every bruise

My salve is that of ripe ears

Too young to suspect malice or greed

Too jaded to appreciate the Clear

Tell me stories about ghosts and grappling with a fear of being deadly

And I’ll convince myself it’s life

Not speed

That I’m tabled by.

codependency

And the prize goes to the woman

So afraid of being “girl”

That she shut her eye and waited

For life to come to her

Charge forward

Free of shackles

And others’ doorways

Charge forward

In your own track &

Mudprints

Charge forward

Through windows &

Broken radiators

Carve forward a

History without

“His & hers” footnotes

slivers of light

Don’t hold onto the slivers of light that crept through the floorboards

Shining a believable ending onto a confusing succession of disbelief

And accusation

Don’t hold onto the good texts like a security blanket

Walking around the house wondering why the screen is so black

And the clock so late

Don’t tell yourself this suffering is the good kind, is real

And sit through subzero campfires glowing bright by gaslight

Don’t avoid your dry eyes in the staring contest

Don’t blame yourself for all of his delusions and allow shade to frame your lost heart

See instead the coldness

The vagueness

The distance

Remember the time he caged you into a pit wet muddy by fallacies which to him were vices of reason set tuned to a hair trigger fault finder

Remember the “fuck u”‘s

The walk outs

The odd stares

The mind twisting

The disbelief in yourself he injected through a flat screen keyboard

The ticking time bomb

The unusable words

The first time silenced

And he was audacious enough to deem that “enraged”

The irrational victimhood

The resentment of female

The avoidance of wrongness

The pursuit of island

He, alone and left wanting, so wanting, for longer than you can wrap your straws around

Hold onto the flesh that was present, that you misread as flash

And eclipse

And let go of the sharpness he spent years of resentment sculpting in the dark

Don’t tell yourself this kind of numbness to the mind and panic to the tongue

Is love

It is, rather, a vice

He’s learned, over time, to build from the shards of his bruised and blackened heart bones

His sit bones, touchless to the earth

For his emptiness gave him flight

From any skin-to-soul connection

Leaving him floating among the dust

That gathers itself in the corners you’re not ready to clean yet