Pine Needles

The fear and hope of a house.
There is an echo.
You could sit bare-ass in moonlight
In the deep forest.
Here’s a story
that’s not one:
A brother took his brother
into the deep of a forest
to sit on pine needles,
to scoff and wait for the moon.
He took him into the deep of a forest
with intent to kill him.
But they got separated
in a stupid sort of game
they agreed to play
in honor of wild animals,
which they were.
They both got laughing
and felt they had hooves,
and now they are there,
bees on their bones
or calling to each other forever,
depending if you believe
and if you love ghosts.
Calling out to each other
with the same degree
of fear and hope.
Like two tin-cans
on a rusty string.
Or maybe texting.
Although one still wants
to kill the other
before they find a way
to enjoy the shadows
as a permanent bed.

There is a heavy nothing
on a killer’s chest.

Because he did not get
to gnaw that bone.

There is an idealism
in that they are
wherever they are.
They’re like a jpeg of the moon.
We are unable to enjoy
anything of them
but the hope that both calls
will be answered at once.

If the voices found each other,
both brothers would be lost.

If the forest keeps them, though,
each in a separate pocket forever,
it is not so bad.


The rain is scribbling against the window
Each time I look it’s a different monoprint
of the oh-so-artistic night
A mouse snuck into our house
I can’t type “sneaked,” I’m sorry
It sounds a rodent in sneakers
I suppose it’s the negative degrees
I lit a candle
The cat sniffed for its blood
We had fun
I text you these words
Thoughts from the nineteenth century
Please bring home milk and bread
I look like a witch in this candlelight
Does any of this make you horny?


The hard bright dancing of the stars
Then asking forgiveness
The nowhere soon driven into the fist
The aperture of the old camera and the dark tunnel
into which a become animal in golden haze

That animal and its calendars
The exception for the cockroach
The sickness of forgiving the health of strong winds
It means the planet is still breathing
(Even the tornado asks a sort of forgiveness:
that a deafening, high-pitched scream of)

But it is the wound of the accident of being born
Tethered to the sky above
It will do anything to escape the world even kill us
It is a native son
It will lift every room of the house of the family at once
Then smash it down like the toy it was

The toy of a gone

Nothing for a center yet it spins and plays
The terror of his draft of a broken military record
The hard bright dancing of its stars
The heard bullet of the name and its ricochet
Above the head it will never have
It puts on the gods’ clothing and dances
spitting death as small projectiles

The things we clutch in the prejudice of the moment

When a child dries up
And we find just these vestments
of the gods left behind

on the single bed where they come to look for guns



You walk by the open room
and a skeletal hand
shoots out of dark
grabs your too tropical, too parroty shirt
You hear the diamonds
shaking like all the ready girls
the journals of Paul Gaugin
The moon comes down the hallway
and panhandles company

It is a horny courtesy
to smile at you

There is even one young girl
dropped out of vampire school
combing her long Lana hair
will tell you there is no use
spinning the radio dial
in the family cemetery after midnight
She’s tried this for years
until her feet turned to golden hooves
She became a mother, wife and child

so now she hides from every world

The radio dial is spun again
by _______ (a drinker)
on a night so cold it crackles
like the static between the stars

Stephen Hawking is floating in that space
in the form of mathematical equations

Say “hi,” will you, as you float past him

The skeletal hand starts dancing
in its own way over the body
“The Mortel Bedde”

(hence, motel)

over the body which can no longer dance

(says the boy kept prisoner at the center of the bone palace)

Oh it is terrible to be seen
Oh it is terrible to be unseen

says the skeleton seeking a dance partner at the lame singles party

left out with the stars on the window sill

whose eternal complaint of the cold is desire home

like a t.v. dinner




The words happen,
predestined to be years.
Sometimes they fur like moss.
Sometimes they drain our blood.
Sometimes they fall as hammers
on the house’s roof itself
and through.

The words happen,
and we want to think they have ears.
They listen to us, they learn
to mimic us.
Strange, bloodthirsty little pets
we can surely tame.

And here we are moving on,
and where will they go,
our little loved ones,
domesticated things
we must turn out of doors,
return to all wildness

from whence they came
to play house a while.

And still we smile to remember

how they crossed our threshold,

fleet of wild foot

and their friendly little fangs.



You have left


There is still a gas jet
sound of her weeping
crossing an isthmus
too dark to see
The formidable holiness
of the small balloon
pushed into the heart

There is stillness, a crossing
of the tiny sounds
the flaw of being
so strange
how the train
becomes a name

A crack crosses the ceiling
as we lie on our backs
looking up
A map is so pretending
Its boots fill with rain
two tall mouths
to empty each morning

Two looks fall with morning
sweet wandering
as the children of deer
behind the strip mall
a cleverness
exhausts its guises