I don’t even remember the front doorway
I don’t remember where the mailbox was
I remember the clangs of the heels on her boots
that first night
following her up the hard stairs to fuck
I remember the stairway would echo
and make her appear so womanly with that momentum
everyday she passed in this stairway it was
like this, kind of like an old hospital
I remember waiting for her like a dog waiting to be fed
I could smell her scent when she was two floors below
but I don’t remember any features of that stairway
or front doorway
I do remember the outside of the door was caked up layers of
black paint with graffiti and spray paint all over it
I remember lots of specs of silver and one loud zig zag mark
I halfway recall the door handle was brass and scratched up
I entered that door about twelve hundred times between
august and march
one time was after I picked up a winter care package
from my mother
at the post office around the corner
she sent us flannel snowman sheets
I’ll love you forever.
People never change.
I won’t love you anymore.
I love you forever.
If you haven’t matured.
No, I’m talking about maturity.
We are closer to death
once we’re born into life.
Love is always being unborn or
unbore by mortal ones.
Unloaded and let go of.
You do portend to stop bearing.
Love is like death.
In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.
It’s going back around the corner
into the brick building
by that intersection,
back into time,
back into the streets of Portland,
up the western hills.
Or, people never change.
Or, people change.
In the empty Brooklyn warehouse.
The summer kills everything here
Somehow it didn’t kill my love for you
I wished it would have, but it didn’t
Somehow it still survived and
subsists to go with me into the Fall
the cells of my skin and my lungs
towards the winter closets
and the portals towards outerspace
So maybe the summer doesn’t kill
but it damn near did a good job
Dead grass. Dead grasshoppers.
Broken rocks and cracked asphalt.
Summer passes over the
landscapes of loss
So you become the road to Amarillo
in my heart
the TV talked and it said
you’re not good enough for me
it said instead
another woman was
then pointed me in the direction
of billboards and magazines
there’s more over there
they’re better instead of these
inside my head
there’s something even better
than these fantasies
that is what the TV said
that is what the TV’s saying
something better than you or I
I’m craving Pepsi.
I’m wanting your hair.
Your hair’s the same color as Pepsi.
I never crave Pepsi, but
I do frequently want your hair.
Especially, these days.
Want its scratchy texture on my chest
when I wake up.
Its scent of lotion, dairy and small
summer flowers from the islands of Scotland.
Now, I’m craving an ice cream float
with you in a slightly cold Brooklyn apartment
on a Saturday afternoon in November,
some rain clouds off in the distance
drifting outside the window.
We walk towards them later that evening.
The sunset flutters in shredded layers
of orange and pink, colliding with
the grays of the storms and the navies of night
across the old brick buildings and
the new high-rise condos.
We walk holding hands.
We’re older than the others who do this.
Our love makes us young at heart.
It makes us courageous and compelling.
It makes us good examples.
Our eyes have always had a certain kind
of conviction when you put us together.
At this point
we were talking about economics
I turned to her and said
*****, did you leave me because of
And she said
regardless of a woman’s education
if she’s a feminist or not
practically every woman
wants to be with a man
they know could take care
of them financially
At least the women who want to
be with a male partner
What about the women with
They’re different she said
Looking for something based more
and being understood
Why do you think things are like this?
I asked one more question
Because women, well people
are afraid to think outside the box
They’re afraid, you know
Everyday without you
I wake up
and try to decide
what I should do with my hair,
how I should wear it.
Should I cut it?
Does it need a trim?
What if I cut it all off?
I would not be plagued with these
But only for a short time.
Then when it was time again
to cut it all off
I’d have to remember why I
was cutting it all off,
cause I don’t want to have to
think about what it’s like
to wake up everyday and
think about how I would or should
wear my hair before your eyes
that are no longer around
to look at the way I wear my hair.
The TVs in this place
can’t help me
They think they can
but they can’t
So I turn to the sorghum fields
and knowing that you know
how this feels
with these TVs here
all around in the air
You know how their glow
attempts to hold you
It held you many times alone
with your blue eyes
looking into it
past the space in the room
and the person sitting
with you there
by the silence
of the concrete walls
and wooden floor
The same silence
in the empty house in your
Can we play celebrities please,
today, when it rains?
Will there be gift baskets
that we get,
courted and made to feel special
for at least an hour, maybe more than an hour?
For them to give us something meaningful
so we can go home and reflect on,
open our mouths at a later point
and say what we did, where we did it,
how it was done and who it was done in front of.
Can we talk?
Were you talking to me?
I was talking to you in the foyer.
You weren’t talking to me.
Now is my time to tell you what is important,
it is about me.
You don’t have anything to say, do you?
You never do.
This isn’t why we rolled around on the carpet,
this can’t be it.
This isn’t how we play celebrity.
You need to have breasts.
I can’t live without the Dead.
All the suns that turned
turned to make Time for the living.
All the stars born
bore the home of the Dead proudly,
bore the lines of horizons,
the place of hemispheres,
the songs from Australia to Alpha Centauri,
the songs from Mexico to Alpha Centauri.
Teeth fleet this precious attainment that is crushed.
Blue nights burn endings
this become beginnings.
The blue nights flip December nights for June
In the beginnings
we bring children to dance on sunrise sunlight.
In bones we walk the path
back home across the pasture dew effervescence.
Ants chew on cow skulls.
Tall grasses grow.
While infinity is right.
Still the Entirety has a point of axis,
gravity spills sometimes,
“I can’t live without the Dead.
We live together.”