marooned

There is a soundtrack to this sadness, the hum of air conditioners and the occasional whine of the interstate. In the early dawn, “the golden hour,” I sit besides the dried up swimming pool of this mid century modern motel as if Edward Hopper had arranged the scene. The long light slips below the blown out palm trees, there never was a chance of shade from the glare of memory. Jesus hides somewhere in the cloudless sky. Warm beer and watered vodka have kept me through another night. I blow smoke signals, but as the butts pile up I know you'll never come. My car sits in the parking lot like the lone coin in a wishing well. There is the road I came in on but there is no reason to leave this squalid oasis of a dead end. Besides the maid smiles easily even though I have never seen her eyes




.

quiet

Standing at the sink, cigarette burning past the edge of the counter into the veneer, you hide in the silence of running water. I used to know the braille of your your back now I wonder what you see out that dark window, what do you reach for in the reflection. I don't know why I still sit here. The vinyl of the dinette chair sticks as the old habit of prayer. The empty sound of the ice rustling, clicking in the absence of whiskey. I can't breathe the air between us, my lungs hardened with silence, all the things I will no longer say settling into place. I will not put my hand on the small of your back, familiarity feels wrong and the knives in the sink discourage startling you. Not that I mind the violence, stagnant blood needs to be changed. But I am stuck in this chair, unable to pour another drink to quiet these prayers





.

endemic

I cannot draw the intricacies of desire into the wind

the mnemonics are indelicate, pushing

through my fingers too easily. the thickness

of your absence reminds me there is no

way to fold this map to bring you closer.

my guts have crystallized into smokey

regret, the bourbon blurred lines and frayed serifs

fade long before the tarmac's yellow ribbon finds

your abandoned ramshackle limbs

.

permanence of flow

in the swollen heat of august when

the moon has no pull you are shy

between the banks of your knees.

I slip beneath the rippled

silk of your skin, the cool

current of your fingers

holding the silence.

a heart of struggle born

in the last breath

and the mythology of the quest.

my emptiness can not contain you,

a lost vessel in the baptism

of your leaving, and the

finality of destination

.

threads

inclement hope rising on the black

threads of the candle's final sigh,

knotting into hands that touched you.

I will wear through the knees of supplication,

so what if the blood flows into the caliche, nothing

will grow in this ground of bones.

eyes pinned, breathing between fingers,

lungs salient in the grip of beauty.

I am developing a taste for the infinite

and the easy lie of kindness

.

cut

I have swung the vermeil

cross through my sin, bled

empty into the night.

In the blue light

of an unoathed moon

ghosts have fled my mouth,

ruined hands unfold from

memories.

I seek your hand,

the small animal of your

fingers to devour me 

.