educated guess

That's all I had then?
Those journals,
all that I had then.
Find me, then and
how is it you
can still hide.

---

Matter is a real thing.
Hard enough to imagine
that most of it
remains out of reach.

---

It must have been
something I had wanted
before.
It must have been alive once.

on the closure of a certain deli by the NM Environmental Department

the smell this summer
first wafting lazy by the slicer
it meandered by the fridge
near the bottom, we scoured
in vents and shelves and shafts and crevices.

the search was inconclusive.

the tuna packet was damaged
no one checks the orders
it was in a box
what's in the box?

maggots.

i hate the number ten
and I have never felt
one way or another about numbers
but I loathe the number ten

however the number nine
reminds me of sugar and
of fog creeping up from the ocean and
of barefoot surfers and
and.

The Woods

1.

A lamb followed Mary to school today. Our school is in the woods. The woods are not a safe place for the lamb. The lamb is not safe around us. 

2.

We take turns butchering the lamb in the school's butchery hovel. We find the lamb's stomach full of grass and grass.

4.

It was a very peaceful lamb.

5.

Under our knife, it's skin parted like the red sea.

 6.

During lunch, we snack upon the little lamb, which we named Seth. After lunch, it's back to our studies.

7.

Walking back into the woods after school, you say you miss Seth.

8.

Seth is a part of you now. He'll never get out of you.

last poem

the moon crisp like paper,

cold puts her lips against my neck

voices of this sad night

sing the end is near

yellow eyes following like headlights

as the city slips past me

pray until these bones

will break

until these roads will turn North

and lead me home

back to something that was

years of soft breathing

and the gentle creak of muscles,

flexing and stretching together

as the sun rose

the ideal lover

when I am hungry
you
feed me

when I am snoring
you
silence me

when my butt itches
you
scratch it

short lived as a moment is
is it not empty, profane love?

that word - profane love
to it I pay my debts
every line is stamped

a moment exists
breathes, likes us, 
goes on. 
to it we must comply. 

for some reason music

does not sound the same to me

as it once did

lyrics don't seem to

punch me in the gut the

way they used to

the connection is flickering

I haven't really put my hands on the piano in

a year almost

the spark has turned external it seems

realizing that

the things I write poetry and music about

that happen within me

don't grasp me

I don't find myself an interesting topic

the way I used to

that sometimes I can sob about my insecurities while my

brainface goes completely blank

expressionless

art has been leaking out of me

I cannot grasp it

the creation in me I

felt it a few days ago for the first time

did depression kill it

did I kill it

is it being reborn can I ever

play the piano

have I been killed

which lover killed me

or is it that

I am not of interest anymore so

I no longer take interest in myself

imagine if you woke up
and had grown antlers
a crown of bone
surrounding your head

High heels announce
        a concrete presence
Short skirt, short jacket
Out past 11, steaming mug
Cafe, beastbeast, sketchpad

Crash with me, sharp corner
Unbuckle your seatbelt
Unlock your ankles, spread
Yourself onto the seat
Fiddle with the stereo

I am driving 145 an hour
In my fantasy, the one with
You, a Honda, a skirt, and me

Love/Friendship/Barthes/Alcohol/Childhood Photo

On this, the wedding day,

of my oldest friend

joy, full to bursting, resolves in his gestures

this woman, his Wife

straight and curved as a flute

of champagne

On this day I am reminded

of a semiotician who once

drunkenly observed, of love,

“the other one never waits”

You who are such an authority

on loves, their hollowing,
the fullness and collapse of them,

Will you call me tomorrow after work

and ask me to come be near you?

Will we swap swigs from a bottle of red

and laugh at our stained tongues?

We scatter into pieces, so completely

intermingled

they can only resemble some Unity

quite as immune to loneliness

as the girl from the picture

who tumbles barefoot through the grass

after the ceremony

who, weightless,

never waits