The truth is this

Say that over and over
In all the accents
This thrashing stabbed
Into your ear each word
Said in throaty anthems

This is what the theme throws
At this other brother
Something anything everything
And over and over and over
The apple the bear

The better butter batter



Red eye flight each Saturday
Like beer coasters the condensation
Makes endless stains what you make
You keep the tiger lilies full of orange
Sunlight fire in your eyes as you see
People you thought you knew
But then words drip into eaves-
Dropping ears like ladling
Soup into a sieve
What leaks covers grass
Turns brown like the drooping
Trees on my front lawn
Buds behind the other blossoms
Not sure if it will bloom before June
When the heat kills the
Runt of the litter


this thing less than five inches high
less than three inches wide
less than an inch deep
has controlled our
without it we
feel help-


Way too busy for one message that swiftly sweeps into the air like
a major cold front, downdraft windstorm, and there’s a bucket of cold
water somewhere soaking each article of clothing, tight, hipster-like
against my flesh, flannel and puka shells, and hardy-tardy mate the kind
you fully don’t catch and you set the vinyl on repeat somehow and your
coffee table is leftover detritus some manila envelopes, beer-label
coasters, Lousiana hot sauce, and the banging radiator because you know
that somehow it’ll be cold even at the end of April as I have repeated
again and again and again and again and … well why can’t you say
something, anything to me or keep in contact, is it something I said,
or have I become some annoying yupster, savior and sin, back to a basic
form of interaction, friends from Y2K and not a mite longer perhaps,
walk on the river, the surface like Jesus if he somehow were real
at least for one second back in the day back in the Roman
sullen Roman day and paper-y the voice of a messiah
in the making of an anteater in the background.


Your mind:
coated with idealism
Love full in red curls
that wrap around
lives farther than
Arms reaching to
A greeting card
From 2009 —

Pull petals from tulips
Countdown clock comas
Hail hammering gutters
Sky darkening as she
Was taken from us
So they say
Without warning
But with the storm-
riddled skies there
was hopelessness
Not much else.

Later —
There was a full moon
Pink but not really
The air crisp
No wind braying
From the sidelines

Earlier —
we reached the hospital
But too late for the
last-minute visitation
that was rightly ours.

So we recall years
when the wine ran sweet
Poetry rolled through our heads
and images and gifts
Brought us brief nostalgia
which is better than nothing
better than sadness.

We hope she recalled
the good things
the good in all
as we try to do now.


Glass stained
Lips cayenned
Pinot poured
Eyes watered
Mind broken
Voice coated
Wind shattered
Air frozen
April missing


Do you know how offensive
I find time-lapsed videos
Of the Brooklyn Bridge in winter
With snowflakes swirling all
Over the place with lit boats
Skirting the troubled waters

Well, I’m not going to tell you


To do this one action
This poem in the evening
Day by day forced
Rushed at times with no laid-
Back and free-form to the words

It leaves me like dried leaves
Flinging this way and that
In a wind scattered
In a heap with others
Unfiltered and unready
For the rake to paw through

Tumble me along with thousands
Of brown crinkly sopping week-old rain
Residue of their haystack sunsets

Sweaty warm in October
Not normal and easily interspersed
As the rulebooks order

Nothing’s in order
As long as there are rulebooks


fried chicken
coating my fingers
in a shiny glaze
brighter than July sun
mason jars of lemonade
a double of Hennessy
bronze beneath the dim lights

stilt-like giraffe
balancing two feet above us
still taller even in
this place of soul
zebra-pattern hassocks
chicken waffles and grits
syrup stains on napkins