In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us
the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
Cars go by the windows
and Westernized adults
really a scam,
some sort of sham show
they judge themselves
So the fan turns
the air conditioner hums,
they get up to check their email,
go back to work tomorrow.
For it is in some other world
where they do not
back to work,
but meet other adults
to discuss and address
the real problems
in their lives.
For in this other world
dominators and subservients,
obsessed with myth and power,
vested in both observant locality
and also relational reality.
And these Westernized adults
realize this other world is
waiting to be built.
I wanted to protect
your veins as you lived
They became muddled
and pooled in blood
After the days, the years
I felt them in science
the velocity of gravity
met me in sunshine
it bathed me grandiosely
turned from outer space
and I knew your heart
bleeding there in your
She had a monochromatic mole on
Just above her brow
It played with a poetry of brown hair
like the breath of the beach and the
blue sky above it
Every single moment that I walked
away from a window
where she stood
was like a new eon being created in
A crystal star, a crest of drawing ocean
One unique feeling
amongst all the lives that have lived
We are divorced.
The children don’t walk into
the kitchen to see us.
The children don’t exist in
or the backseat of
moving through moonlight
Your hair falls for some other
silence on the bathroom
The grime on the light switch
Another family moves in.
Industrial Revolution is
It defeats the unpresentable.
The solo. The non-perfected.
There are graduation parties around
I won’t be there
under the Spring bloomed oak trees
souring scents of keg beer
and hanging bulbs of pink lights
Those days are fifteen years beyond
My head is but a hazy haze each
Not filled with subjects of moons
and phases or the kissing lips of
fresh skin by the windblown lake
What would I do at a graduation party
besides toss cupcakes upon the
hoods of classic cars
then come round with a mower
the next day
to cut a damp and fertile lawn
to start the crusty ruse of economics
that the empty call adulthood
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
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
She died an alcoholic.
Her love was in my heart
one thousand five hundred sixty-four miles away.
This love had made me more mortal
than all the orgasms and funerals in my hours.
This love had been with me in glances down
on muddy floors, dust on countertops,
and when noticing the drops of rain
caught in half-destroyed window screens.
This love had grown from nothingness.
So something similar to the Universe
lived inside my body, something similar
to art, the revolutions amongst particles.
Outside of particles was everything else.
So this love was for her and everything else.
The electricity in her ion channels
no longer rendered from the ethanol.
But the electricity does not die.
There is transference.
Does it go into the air, sail across sweet
tissues or meld into the walls, radio signals or water
crystals suspended in the snow?
But there was something in my heart, each time
she died I lived, I lived oft and oft again apart
born into the stasis between the living and the
dead that many of us evolve to ignore
nor have it in the genetic capabilities we carry.
That old continuum, the holistic continuity.
Many of us grow old and age and many of us grow
old and never age because
we remember love, the broken and the bountiful,
the cyclical, ancient and ever-constant.
We journey to the sun.
I believed in you like the sun.
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.
I should have believed in you like air.
Always there, regardless.
That is how I suffocate now,
That is where you go with me,
The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.
The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air and sun are there.