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.
We can only but get to Mars now
Can I kiss you?
Can I under those blue white skies
skirt the hues of red and orange
and feel your textured, crusted lips
waiting for a humanness to know you
amongst routines, ritual, and duty
the next progenial elation
what were the forms and ways before
in a new kind of gravity
a different context
the answering of ionized metals
for our redemption
the new ways of being
from this space port I buzz to you
my mercury and iron oxide singing
Oh, the scent of her fall
cream, sweat, and deodorant
by the dark bedroom shadows
or morning living room sunlight
by the calls of our heavens
were lovers and deviants
breasts carved for spaceships
eclipses of planets
asses and shape shifts from
the young to the old
her crow’s feet aside her eyes
by porn star eyeliner
by the vestibule of my biological
I want her like the sunrise
until I die
or one of the middle age actresses
on “Designing Women”
these impressions are permanent
neural tissues or the Fountain
Gravity has the doors
most everyone ignores
who lay on floors
they breathe in this stuff
Everyone wonders what they do
with those eyes
A million point five years
of seeing wave frequencies
that go in those special
gravity special doors
and make worlds recycle
like Christian forgiveness
computers tossed into pure
Kittens move to kiss each other
and this is only part of why
they lay around on floors
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.
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 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
to have come close to your life
on a crag by the sea
dreaming by your hips
your scent of cream
believed in you at midday
on bad days
in imperfect ways
a corridor of wood
in an old building
that is the feeling gone now
of cold coming in
through the windows
to have come close to your soul
with the leaves underfoot
in a forest
“she will not travel naught
into solar incineration.
she will not sing the song of spring.
she will not lift her heart.
you must carry it to your grave
all the seas of the mediterranean
when walking in the ozarks,
the blues and yellows,
the browns of her hair,
the earth of your love.
she does not love redemption.”
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.