I used to be afraid
of my own rusted screens
the brown palms
of my hands on their overtime
like the hills
you swept them under

I cannot price
the molehill
of the language we use now
there is a bitterness
there is an equality
it is very much of these flowers

at least

the problem of the personality has been solved

It was solved not for x or y

but this golden field

this nubile cloud above it


Where are you asleep
And can I touch you there
The spiderweb you gave me so lightly
I can’t seem to sunder its threads
Its words, filaments of light

Oh, you are the darker wavelengths for sure

You will have guessed by now
My hatred of you was not hatred
The hatred I turned to disbelief
A doorknob with no door
A door with no house
That sort of logic

I knew you would only repeat as the comet
You are an inveterate repeater
Because you are desire and more
I leave a place for you at the table
The table is a dream, an alphabet
I leave a place for you also at the lake
The lake is only another table
A place for you to dangle feet

I save a place for you there

And in the cemetery next to me I hold your seat

Since I hope to shamelessly continue

I am still much interested in the crime of your hand



On a Street Corner, Attempting to Imitate a Wheedling Machine

On a street corner
by the ghost of a bookstore,
we see a grey-tipped man
and young woman breaking up.
She holds him angrily
by lapels his green shirt
does not have.
He is thinking fast
like a doomed machine,
trying to apply updates.
Please do not power off
or unplug your machine.
Let me fix this.
Let me install
just one more
pitiful correction
to your flawed system,
his eyes wet
with useless
brownness beg.
Will the beauty
wait and correctly
power off?
Or will she say
screw this,
do a hard reboot
of her evening
in those sexy little boots,
grind away,
just turn
the broken corner
where all those ghosts
they loved to read
used to live
back when books
and patience
were still alive?
Back when
her boots
meant less.

Ex-Love Poem

I don’t care if I’m there
in your life’s end credits.
I had you filthily enough.
You had me filthily enough.
It was a form of grand theft. So what.
Go back down into your foxhole.
But never say that I don’t remember
the strange color of your eyes:
blue-grey-green. An uncertain iceberg.
Submerge ninety-ninths of me.
Drag me across the ocean bottom
like an iceberg trying to get gum off its shoe.
I’m as likely to lie with a mummy
in the museum as–ever--you again.
So what. Down there under wraps,
some blind thing still believes it will live forever.