The grease crawls

into my hands, the dead
man sings, his throat open
to the empty moon.
Blood is only a mirror
the night won’t leave.
I knew devotion once,
it is a simple lie.
The waiting for a god.

.

I bricked up the window
where I scattered a pound
of flower seeds, it was an elegy,
it is insurance against
eviction; faith? I leave the blinds
open since I painted the
wall blue like sunshine.
My hand reaches into the
space between my legs
it is a crammed in itch of a
horse too long dead.

.

Forgone

1
Watching the threshold
as the season creeps in dumb
footed, the bath water
ain’t soup yet. The wounds
are still weeping and I am waiting
to forget what I want.
The counter rotation
of memory into never knowing.
Why do I always blink
when the lights go off?

2
The wires implacable
blue light could be flattering
or lying but it’s touch never
conforms to warmth.
Worn down and smooth,
an estuary in reverse.
Somebody got the polarity
wrong, transposed a digit,
the syntax won’t compile,
and the iron in me refuses
to vibrate. This nearness
to absolute belies the
confession of desire.

3
I have been under your
cross again hoping for
a glimpse of something holy.
You hated when I wore
the faux stigmata.
Your flesh codified
as a dream. My sin is
eternal, a strung out
atonal drone. The bent nail
screech as it is removed
bloody from the wood.
My hands are slick.

4
I want to take pictures
of flowers, I am beautiful
in their captured image.
To be honest it is the only
flesh I am allowed. I want
to gather the petals and
throw them into the brown
river. If I leave too
I can be a ghost.
The small wind rippling.
It would be something to offer
besides the bloody smear or veins.





.

What breaks best?

I thought to steal you from
the earth; what is the subtraction
of one dead bird? There is always
a cross and I have some nails.
I was a prophet then. Is there
any reason to not look back?

Tumbleweeds punch through
any crack until their fists
break free, but that isn’t a song.
Have you heard the wind rising
through octaves? Single pane aluminum
boned windows shuddering;
keeping the static turned high.

I have screamed your name
into the faces of foreclosed houses.
Dead deer cross streets, the light
is predatory and obvious. Broken sheet
rock loosening. There are fingerprints
fiercely pushing back against
signal degradation. The remnants fail.
I hope you find me.





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