Tagged: my Best

Senility Lane

the blanket says I brought it on myself
but doesn’t remember why
she might’ve meant how much I’ve grown
or the tree I told her has fallen in the yard
I hope she doesn’t think a tree
has fallen on me in the yard
or that I might have already called her
she might have already told me
the things I’m supposed to know
like how to get out from under a tree
how to clean a fish over the phone
my parents could’ve looked it up themselves
or probably done it for me
but they made me call my grandmother
who walked me through a process
I’d have to call her again to do
that little perch, its bones
like splinters in its own flesh
newspaper torn, black blood and
sunlight shifting in the winded
tree, garage glinting
it had the look of still writhing
or still writing, which is
the back and forth of fear for me:
a dead thing still moving
an alive thing that doesn’t

Insomnia

the eldest pursues an ice cream truck
on his bicycle. he goes much farther
than he is supposed to. when he gets
back he has to funnel the ice cream
into cups. they drink it like water. the
eldest drinks real water, such is the length
of the neighborhood, the surrounding town
at night the eldest is last to sleep. there
is something about being the last awake that
appeals to him, like being alive is a trick
that’s easier to do when people aren’t looking
look at the surrounding town, the approximate
length of the known world. a dog barks
through it. it responds to its own sound. the
eldest dreams of being understood, or swiftly
diagnosed, but there’s no one awake who
can do that now. there’s no point worrying
it’s like that everywhere he could go

The Land of Places to Stop for a Moment

still misplacing the allotted granules
an expected &

unopened door

i remember things i’ve thrown
in a way
that places them
back together

giantess, dinner plates, souls
i have looked
for deposits
inside of

under the guise
of not giving up

there is nothing inside us

we are whatever ledge
on which
we place
our time

Creation Story

I used to dream of an invention
that would let me sleep deeply
but consciously, so that time
would pass less quickly

It would let me dream of anything
but I’d still dream of nothing, just
so I could lay there in it. I have
always had a strong affinity for nothing

Out of nothing anything can happen
Something usually leads to something
There is always the gray color
of what we know, we think, the gray

color of night and day exchanging
prominence. Black and white cue cards
heavily rotated, each with the next thought’s
location, the next fertile coordinate

each like asking for more love. In the garden
there is a man, a different looking man, a
tree. I say don’t touch that stuff yet!
I’m not sure what it’s all for

Quick Quick

those of us safe
are loosely staked
in soft ground
feet shifting, we
sink a little, and though
we are not smaller
we seem smaller
to ourselves. so,
in our desperation
in our hatred
of not being heard
or helping
we try new ways
of saying what has
already been said
perfectly, by ourselves
even, when we
had said nothing

People Near a Fire

A woman sings without breathing mask
in all this smoke
She covers Wagon Wheel
and smoke covers the mountains

A crowd of people gather. They dance
as though someone
has just completed
a successful surgery, or a birth

and small green shrubs have popped up
from the fires before. 2003, 2010. They seem
to run back and forth like children
between challenges

What challenges me? A guy lights his cigarette
and his girlfriend gets on him
He says I need it to be myself
while we’re here!

I’m standing alone for the same reason
You’re off in the market, carrying
my bucket of water. It seems impossible
that I should be able to cry now

smoke like a grey wool pillow, pink
bandana around my face, but I am. Something
about the altitude, my solitude, a mixture
of short air and of people, how

I love you, how I look like a bandit
how I love to see your ideas
nesting in burnt trees like eagles
I see how people continue to dance

long after the woman has lost her voice
how when you look closely, you can see
where new life
has been pulled out of old life

Rubbing Two Sticks Together

I see those kids again
Her pink hair. His hands
attached to her
butt pockets. Walking down
Airport

Walking down the trail
overlooking the Fire Academy’s
training center. It is more
of a wading

than a walking, the way
they synchronize
their leg movements. They
move as if through

cool ooze, the morass
of skipping classes,
the way a day passes
when you are young

I lose them behind
the Fire Academy stairwell
A fire truck ladder
lands on an open window
Recruits scramble up

And the sun sits. It seems
to think the same long thought
it’s been thinking
since we were born

The Earth

I watch this kid
fold a world map tablecloth
around his body

and call himself The Earth
Like that is
his wrestling name

He plans to join
the downstreet kids
who have made a ring
out of old mattresses

Sheets tied together
someone’s actual mailbox
repurposed
as a turnbuckle. The other
turnbuckles

are city-issue trash cans
Kids are leaping
off them, yelling names
that they have chosen
for themselves. Soldier Man!
The Hurricane!
Robot Shark!

The Earth readies, and
hurdles down
Likely he’ll get pummeled
but that’s why
any of this happens. He
runs into the sun, laughing
the arctics tied
around his neck

I think about the times
or time I was a boy
How when a boy runs
(or fights, or loves)
he flares out his world
like a cape

Crosswalk Balloon

a balloon bounces
across a red light
on the rocks
not popping

the cars go, they too
on their balloons
on the rocks
not popping

each day, I feel
another day
coming

not like these balloons
which could go
any minute

I wonder if somewhere
out in space

there’s a street
our planets bobble across
not popping

and if
the light
will ever change?