tape

metal mesh tongues

on glass pane eyes, a

translucent autumn

makes haste for exit;

it tries to leave the 

gutter conglomerate 

of affections in shedding,

of nose twitches, of wings

in paralysis, of butterflies in

flee from breastfed saplings, 

of everyday eclipses hiding

in your sock drawer. you’ll

close your lips around

the filter in thirst for

a swollen teat, 

trying to carbonize a 

memory impossible to 

swat away like a housefly.

the sheen of a slippery

cosmos keeps lapping at

your thighs, biscuit

crumbs populating a universe

of discomfort and contemplative 

shadows of snakes, an armless 

venom of time, spreads a 

gangrene over your waning

moon; a mole in the sky

reaches into the fishbowl of 

your grandfather’s heart,

to find you the answer to a 

long haunting question;

a man poisoning a man, is 

learned to be father and son.

~~~

alphabet

dear [redacted], i 

confused inspiration for 

affection. i am correcting 

it with a poem. i am 

bringing the sun to the 

quiet romance of two 

losers, that is, i am 

bringing language to 

futility; i am punctuating

completion because an 

end is unnecessary 

when there were lines 

after lines pilling off 

your lips were growing 

darker with every drag of

silence pulled through 

car-boned lungs,

you were caught;

between and with, 

an attempt to weave 

a mother out of 

your citylessness, a

father, an incomplete

ode of a tarnishing

faith, erases your

remnant twinkle; 

but [redacted], how

did it feel, to be 

relieved of the burden 

of not awaking as-

back to the present, 

back to the present,

you’re teething at 

a cluster of clots and 

calling it a kiss; you’re 

baiting your spine in

the same scent that 

drowned your music; 

a ghost is misconstrued 

into a companion, and a 

haunting into a shadow, 

bleeding for an emotion,

fear is walked hand in 

hand with the ache of 

needing a mere graze of 

love. you’ll crease the 

yellow note a hundredth 

time, [redacted] leafing 

through your past with 

nicotine fingers, I’ll keep 

calling memory from 

a disconnected phone 

booth, ingesting a 

morsel of anger for 

dinner, striking out 

every hymn because 

they failed to give you 

a heart; stirring every 

night to the sound of 

a shifting womb in 

recoil of her creation, 

silent resentment 

mosses a patient tongue 

to slip a papercut to 

the carotid.

~~~

seasonal abandonment

//11:04, being you in the way you are not//
very soon, november 
will pull at her petals 
and mark you a trail 
to follow, whispering
a plea, //please follow,
please// laying one 
death after the other 
in your aid; when you’d 
never return with flowers, 
she’ll turn the tv on, 
cauterize her bleeding 
womb in the staccato-
breathed ellipsis on 
her phone.
//1:45, being you in the way i wish you were//
she’ll straighten
the living room, tear 
the dust off the couch, 
weep a prayer for the waves
that could never return.
she’ll snip her wilts,
pack them in paper,
the body a mere pebble
weathering the seasons,
shaves itself a shelter
for the misery about 
to arrive.
//3:06, being you in the way i wish to be you//
home. you take after 
your city, warm with 
the dirt of otherness, 
eyes washed down 
gutters to cool the 
hauntings, you forget 
how her waters pulled 
tangled tongues into 
meadows, nourishing 
your earth, cradling 
your palms in motherly 
hesitance.
//coasts, coats,
getting draped over 
your ghost, the sweat 
of a parting is leaving 
her skin [but who are you?]
never in a goodbye, 
always in a question//
i’m a what.
i am you with words 
in indigestion and bile 
curdled in your tonsils.
i am you in the way 
i am with closed curtains 
and distance in this heart 
where love ought to be.