Perfection And The Alcoholic’s Diet Of Unborn Children

alcoholic's diet

This is the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children

Yes, that’s right

Their parents aren’t perfect but wanted
to be

Turning into walls
You didn’t say that sentence properly

That’s funny

Be better

Be quiet, you’re giving me a riot

There . . . ghosts!

Their ghosts?

They live everywhere, even in between the minutes
before watching television

Oh no,
I meant the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children

Not me, not my problem

I don’t have them

Oh just go kill yourself

You drinking again?

I don’t respect you

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The Eastern Sky

the eastern sky there
looked pretty

as beautiful as your love
when i left you

lofty
dreaming dark blue clouds
of night

mortal like you
they asked to shape breathing

witness to a history
not be forgotten

not even by the newborn flowers
of Spring
or the new myocytes
of your heart

for the eastern sky there
looked pretty

and the stray dogs in the alleys
trailed shadows

sniffing at the dandelions
in May

i see in this darkness

you look for the light

Untitled Nucleic Love

Nucleic Love

Kiss and you shall feel the air.
My vanquished ghost. No.
My lingering tome. The smell
of our home. Winter Twenty-Twelve.
I am still there. Burning the spiced
cranberry in your heart.

You misplaced your feelings in
between moments of sipping booze
and placing your glass down upon
the wooden credenza to stain it.
For your breath can vanquish
unattainable concerns,

or Hollywood human existence.
The transitory bourgeoisie.

Now          can          you
kiss the air in the time portal I walk
within?
Or make my electrons vector.
Bring your insecurities to flesh
with courage.

I live within your DNA.

The Land In My Head

There is a large land

a large land in my head.

It is you. It is you.

Taking up what’s known.

The visits down to the ice cream shop.

The crystal ship.

Visits to foreign lands.

Lavender babies.

The feeling of holding babies

in foreign lands

under different suns.

Many suns.

Twisted suns.

Twisting orange suns.

Nomenclature.

Purple suns.

The feeling begins again and again

like a library of precipices in the blue house

An archive of horizons.

A computational hero

in my chest.

The Forest Companion Speaker

the forest

I walked barefoot through the woods for you.

Your creamy scent of the Viennese summer
vanished.

Dreams of pastry shops.
Royal drapery.

No, these were the woods of the West.
The big woods.
The vast ones.
The ones acquainted with receding clouds
across the mountainous sprawl.

I walked and walked, continued,
with cool soil, pine needles and moss
underneath my barefoot steps.

I was earthen again, like animal,
but somehow still a man.
A quiet, nonverbal human.
Something timeless, something ancient.

Chills ran down my spine.

So I listened and had eyes for you.

Your favorite birds came, the delicate finches.
I thought they were your thoughts.
They fleeted with the sunlight and looked forever
for some seedlings.

All I saw were blue afternoons beyond the trees
and the echoing cavern of midnight
which left me wondering
and searching for a cabin where a candle might
be burning.

From its interior this forest was always like
the ship of a giant mariner turned upside down.
A laughter of stuff left on Mars.

Then, you ran across the busy city street,
all this vanished in a moment,
you were rushing on your way to a meeting.

The forest froze inside my mind,
and so these days go on forever.

Some Things Left Over, My Oolong Baby

Do you still have my tea?

I looked for it in the cupboard.

Could not find it.

Then I searched for your auburn hair

and could not find it,

not even aging in my hands

or fallen, swept under couches.

That tea was brought from my friend

from Hong Kong.

I wanted it to warm my feet.

But the kittens you brought in

from the street, then left behind,

now serve this tribal purpose.

They are looking for you in their pupils.

They see excellently in the dark.

They meow your name.

It contains two syllables in the twilight.

There’s not a lot of light around here lately.

I’d like to find that fucking tea.

The gas burners could glow and burn for me.

But I believe you’ve taken it to New York

or sent it on a wondrous journey to the city dump.

I believe in wondrous journeys,

things like our lost love, torn from the stars.

We could be making a different kind of story.

Daily Progressions By Main Street

I got home

I sat in this chair

I thought about you

meant to get up to clean the litterbox

I ended up dozing off
hunched over in my chair

it hurt my neck and back

when I woke up they were in pain

I wondered how I could fall asleep
like that

then I remembered how heavily
I had been thinking about you

how it felt lethargic and burning
in my heart

sluggish and enzymatic

I made myself go up stairs to
do something

Alone In The Distance

old country road

I’ve made pilgrimages
back over the roads
we first drove
when we moved to Texas

country roads
between
Fort Worth and Decatur

footnotes of the West

blackbirds up high on wires

brush fields
dust
and hills

yellow horizons and dust again

but driving back across
these roads
cannot erase our moments together

so I look these landscapes
in the eye
and feel them in my heart

every
little farmhouse
alone in the distance

The Gilgamesh Eternal

i can’t have the Universe answer

i am only

only human

tossing rocks to the stars

waiting for aliens and gods to answer

the cycles of suns and moons
are
the vessels of containment

the years do not last because time is
the same
and
eternal

yet the protons still spin
electrons do the dance
and the neutrons make magic that eludes us

being the same and eternal is
the feeling in my heart for you

or again the human

what is left after these sweet computers
go to the heavens?

the ones i chased into the future to find you

the cold hard gray ones

for before them or any after or ever since

i can’t have the Universe answer

and this is all
what your pursed-lip kisses have sheltered