where the railroad cuts through nowhere

a pair of shoes dangle
from shoelaces worn thin,
skinny broken necks wrapped
twice around a telephone wire

the shoes hang against a watery
sky like the feet

of a criminal,
a little lynching that
marks the beginnings
of railroad tracks

how many feet run bare
through the cornfields?

somewhere, sometime
those shoes belonged
to someone

haunted

on the edge of sleep

things can become real;

doors can swing

nails can drag down the walls

the covers can shift next to you.

you will wake up

believing in ghosts

haunted.

too incoherent to write anything worthwhile

head is pounding against the curb of central

desert sun burns my eyes and my nose is rubbed raw

i don't want to stand barefoot on the bathroom floor

was there something i was supposed to do

think i have to give a presentation tomorrow

okay

helen

two hawks circling
and the opal ocean

when the wings fold
your mysterious
      womanhood
is formed

so they can smell a rose
and write a verse
      and bring you roses
upon roses

but can they see
your slick body
bare-chested and every breath
      free

free to leave me

Thing with Feathers

22 years old
shivering in your underwear
on the pier last night:

remember the starlit intersection
that ends the truck route
santa fe or white rock

remember the warm violin shape
of the girl in her bedroom
who invites you in

finally vault the railing
which confined you to the world
(and taught you to fear the void)
become, for a moment,
winged

passion in robots

I sometimes forget to consider

that we are human

that when we lay in bed I

melt into the sheets and that when you

say "let's discuss eco-feminism"

I can only imagine the countless discussions

we will have that will tear up the inside of my

lips with frustration that always end in the words

I love you

Thank you for teaching me something today

Thank you for letting me treat you like a robot

pushing your buttons

until short-circuiting do us part

wrong body wrong parts

i don't know what it means to feel

truly different

and a documentary can only go

so far

like the poster on this wall

i can fix it with as much tape as i like

but in the end

it will always

fall

to have
good to have been
held in the parking garage
in the rain


. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

a weird poem for albuquerque crosswalks

buses pass inches

from pretty girls standing at

the edge of the street

drawing wisps of hair dancing

i stand further back

unable to feel the sort of confidence they must

that the world values their beauty too much

for a city bus to spoil

love that mcdonalds shit (this is not a poem pt. 2)

humanity has evolved through

so many generations so that

I can sit in a hard plastic booth

built to resemble another booth

somewhere and I can hold a burger

stacked in the image of another

burger somewhere else

everything has a duplicate

in this strange and futuristic

world--across from me a man

spills over his chair

hello, soulmate, let me buy you

some calories

I will never feel

loneliness again

come here
place your belongings on the floor
undress

sit down
enter a trance of ambivalence if you have the capacity
if not, just sit there

stop singing
this is not a time for merriment
yeah, stfu, kid