tide pulled by an ocean
im calling home sirens
who can drown the fish then?
it all ends in the same place
treading water until further notice
i’m sharing my bed with Fortune
i’m sharing my porch with a wasp
one scares me more that the other
there are dreams i wish i could look back on
freedom i hope to take back or define
can’t tell if behind or in front
i hear shadows cracking their joints at me
like they too are getting old
calling my bluff
even if i know my weekly routes
i still can’t tell left from right.
sugar gliders and six of swords
what is sex but
some territory love stomps over
trampled like rubber to a rode
love a “privilege”
undeserved and must be payed over in time
so we hold it
but love in its double aspect
being and none being
terrifyingly material beacon of time.
there were horses, haunted houses and daydreams.
hollow victories and re
the need to polish trophies just to
rub the rag’s face in.
where has temperance gone?
eating creel and lackluster for shine’s sake.
allowing time to disregard how my wrist
moves in tandem with greed.
do you tell the world, or eat your shame?
this bone i chew still kicks at my teeth
forgetting the my arms that hold you
have taken men and women on their bellies
walking away with more than blood
on my hands
tied to these trophies they sound
petty with my name stamped on their cover
think of that next time you try to rope me in.
im counting on the ability to know
more than you do
when i asked my mother why kids were sniffing glue
it helped curve hunger.
i was seven at the time
and can understand why any mother would leave out
that sniffing super glue
can get you high
because hunger is a decease of society
of all of us
none of us feel the guilt
a junkie has all the pity and repulsion they deserve.
im going to tell you
you will be visited by either the Lamb
or the Beast
but as usual,
only i will attend here.
like the moon who invented rhythm
i’m now a servant to civilization
who uninvited it.
theres been an ebb against potential here
a halt in scrutiny
a tsk tsk to routine
there is such thing as too much of a good thing
just ask the desert man drowned in the ocean
not too many sunsets have been seen from that angle
there are words in here you may not reach
months that escaped
that last beer in an alcoholic’s six pack
they’re not for you
those secrets are not for you
those months are not for you
so when you hold me next time,
watch for the tide of my breath
soft like my skin on your warmth
picture me small
mouse-sweet and drip-dripping tender
but know and wonder
there are secrets in there
some we will not mention
even to the loudest of roars
tell me again now,
FOX AND HOUND
it feels bitter when it should feel sweet
it feels ragged when it should feel smooth,
it feels deep purple when it should feel pink
these smells should only
bring back memories of stay and release
not damp apartments in cities
where our mothers cried
where we cried ourselves awake
many days tugging your tail too far
off your fruitful grounds
so who was wolf
and who was fox?
now you see me scurry back in who’s little borough
i still think of you.