heartbeats

13.08.2017

i see the power lines, red
light district lights blinking,
the turrets of wind farms
spiraling endless and how
the fuck am i supposed
to reach out and touch this,
this happiness, and know that
it is something i cannot keep?

here there is americana
upswept in dust, hot days
with nightshade and fire pits.
i will my camera to appear,
to take my mind’s eye photos
of railroad tracks and dirty boots
and the stillness of your face
when you fall asleep.

i want to remain in the space
where i hear your heart beat.

may i capture it in format?
can i paint it in straight lines?
i will sculpt a door in which
i may traverse to sometime
that this would be different
and i would be better. i would be
lots of things, anything;
instead this repeats.

i can loop too.
just not like you, not in
the magic way that i don’t really
understand, just like so much
about you, but i want it and
the echoes, the ghost doesn’t,
+++++ it doesn’t
it doesn’t matter to me.

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blue

8.08.2017

blue sky today –
looks washed clean, new
paint applied, no cracks
along the sideboards.

i light candles
that burn down to nothing,
for in this space
it is always dark.

text messages
are uncertain things;
notification alerts
like mini-panic attacks.

i make lists
to fill trash liners,
and whisper your
name on southern winds.

tiny pinpricks
through facade
made light shafts
on this shallow grave.

and suddenly i can see
all along what was wrong
was me, and my bothers
will never bother you.
here i am alone in blue.

background noise

9.07.2017

here in the tree
i am one leaf rustling.
i am together, and yet
s e p a r a t e
and i am lonely.
you are so close, but these
tendrils of photosynthesis
do not bind, do not touch,
do nothing but sustain
a bigger hierarchy of sound.

and if i was a flower, too
somewhere in-between i’d pause
and wonder why
you find the time
to visit everyone but me.
you must have been a busy bee.

these days our homes are never silent.
dryers running full, floorboards creaking,
shouting dogs and people barking
orders, and a small whimpering heard
through backs-of-doors, if only
you were listening.

the cicadas here are lovely things.
they sing and hum and never stop.
they work for every goddamn breath
til they fall down in grasses dead.

the breeze here blows free:
summer scent of beachy waves,
sun-tan oil stains,
your musty bedroom blankets:
the cacophony goes unheard
and i am
s o m e w h e r e
in the middle between hell
and high water.
i shout your name among
the flames.

we burn in earnest, you and i
in tandem like two apartments;
one catches to the other in
ruination.
the middle ground
is groaning cinder.

o attic space above my head!
rotting in asbestos corridors
filled with books and useless
verbage, ignored.
o basement dweller! your corners
dark and cracked with sorrow, the
mess of truth, become something
you may not have wished for.

even the insects sleep, quite hushed,
when night has turned here all to dark.
i lay awake, a puddle on the floor.
am i so easy to ignore?