The summer was soft to us
That first one there
Fifty-something days of a hundred degree
Though we laid close at night
in the cold air cooled by a window unit
cotton blankets my mother had given us
Trees lived in that place and we still held
when we went for walks in the evenings
There was something there that made us
hold hands when we went for walks in the
and the scent of sprinklers spraying water
over parched grass and warm concrete
rose to meet us
and would stay in just that one way
deep in the tissues of our brain
when we were able to love
in such conditions so far away from the
callous city in which we met
When we were able to love, God
God, when we were able to love
I have lived happily, jubilantly,
and so many others were
wanting, striving, to be
If these are our days
then what is our wealth
in the end
the nothingness we go
rather insignificant vanishings
amongst the galaxies
So this my friend
is why I rejoice and love
Cookies are easy
they go upside down
all across the City
in New York City
we could be baking and making
with something between us
something different and new and old
people would eat them
chocolate and walnut with sea salt
in our domestic space
your hands or her hands
my hands or his hands
mixing the batter in a bowl
a green or blue glass bowl
the pasty granules turning over and
over earthen or delicate hands
and yellow light from the 20th Century
cutting highlights in
the glass of the bowl
surrounding around us
around our heads the memory of
so we take the scents
the butter, the burning
the cars, the smog
the flowers from yesterday in the hall
and we kiss
with batter under our fingernails
the wallpaper stares
yeah, we chose to wallpaper the walls
to liven the place up a bit
I mean this is the freaking City
it needed a little coziness
I understand a couple more things
this time around
The hill where that rundown seafood
restaurant once was
Not just the restaurant, but the entire hill
They razed it so they could build an
express commuter bridge across the lake
We once started arguing in the car
while driving by that hill
Our argument continued for about 2 miles
into the east, encompassing our entire
trek over the bridge
their was silence and I sat there
staring at the plastic panels in the car
and reflecting back at that abandoned
we had passed
If I decided to take up an instrument
it would be you.
In the stillness of darkness I would draw
your dark hair to my dreams.
Your blue eyes would go trailing over
Yeah, they would go where the heather
Then, when the osprey takes to the sky
you would know how much your people
and the manner in which their days are
born from the old and ancient sun.
It all curls over all of us
in a quintepitus frame of time.
The manner in which time is framed
does actually matter.
Oh, I’ll never love her again.
I mean I’ll certainly love her,
but I won’t LOVE her.
Not like I did with the cool air
blowing in through the window
onto the strained meow of her
old gray and black tabby cat
sprawled across the small kitchen table
in that sixth floor apartment in Brooklyn.
I’ll never know Spring like that again.
It won’t come for me again,
breaking the sunrise over the M train
traversing the Williamsburg Bridge.
These are the molecules of the city,
hormones of the corpus,
a man’s firm body atop the softness of
where the land and ocean gather,
and memories are left to their stillness.
With you, for you, I shaped a
Trailed freckles and oceans.
Believed in your breath and doubted
your words in the shadows of
timber rafters in houses,
because you are imperfect,
mostly in the corridors of humans.
When driving in a car on a country
Fort Worth and Granbury
the Universe was born.
There, on Spring, ten years ago
you noticed we’ve seen
these worlds a million times over.
So then we become afraid to love.
Turned into man and woman.
Red rock and grasses.
Surrounded by oak trees.
Our emotions are mathematic.
Something that is for and from before.
We’ll kiss in dreams at night.
We will be unformed.
All my life
I’ve just been waiting for the woman to
go to Kmart with.
Fuck The French Room. Fuck Tavern On
Fucking Kmart on a Sunday morning
with red slurpees in both our hands
and our other mortal earthen hands
holding on to
like stones in the amphitheater at Ephesus
clutching onto wildflowers,
we’d be made from love formed
so many eons ago.
Our apartment was rickety and impoverished,
almost like an old Michigan lake house
perched above a block in the City.
The glass in the windows had fallen downwards
over the years
to bend the view of the street below and the
twinkling lights of Manhattan in the distance.
The wood of the frames was rotten.
Below, they cooked greasy Thai noodles and
you could smell sweet curry and grilled eggs
in the afternoon when trying to nap between
orgasms on a Saturday.
Cars always stuttered and honked and
scented everything in charcoal.
Above, on a wooden plank floor painted with
lime latex paint was a cheap twin futon bed
where I had her every night to every morning
from the summer of 2004 to the spring of 2005.
The curves of her body filled my hands like
the moon in the night sky.
I breathed her fertile scent. It lived on my
lips and hands. I would go off to work a
mindless job, she still lived in my nose.
She helped me be mortal and still lives in
my dreams after all this is left for the dead,
the dead between the floors that scatter the
wasted hopes of a city in squalor, coughing on
the honesty of sunrises.
She became an idea.
An idea that wore dresses,
and had corporeal feelings
embedded in memories and
This idea drove in a white
from Texas to New York City
and would never be seen
She woke up from a ghost
on a planet
seven hundred and fifty
light years away
and had foggy remembrance
of a different way of life
a different count of days.
The landscape turned from
the white plaster walls of
temples to orange mountains
in the distance
and the navy blue night far
Her heart beat.
She remembered someone she
She looked down at her wrists
Her eyes blinked.
A transmitter brought transference.
A lifetime had been stored in
molecules, configured into
prior held assumptions were