Fear Blue Eyes

Looking, I see the

crafted scab buttons you fasten and press

in the unforgiven sun of our salt baked road.

& again, no peace, in this landscape of devouring green

no gods without faces to call you back.

Even the trees have needles here.

Still as the sun,

I have given up on licking your wounds.

Hammered down,

I have given up on buying your pretense with my prayers.

Strangers congratulate me for keeping you alive so long,

I am stopped on the streets

I am hailed savior – just some vehicle for your survival

some girl-child you chose to choose when choice was small.

These homeless crows obey me

& beg me give back their feathers I burned for you

You are not here, I have asked for too much.

It burns to think of you.  Burns to mourn you while you move.

Your smoke is in my eyes.

& the guardians of bitter boys circle

my mistakes in their mouths

scared to lose you

scared you are forgetting to breathe

Will you sing for them?  They want you to sing.  Sing for them.  Be their broken bird.

Later I will ask,

who is this?

In this photograph, in this lake; this bathtub; this mirror

Reflecting me back

to this when where who leaves?

Still I fear blue eyes.  Again I look away.  & you survive.



the brain is a feral five pound meat maze
where sense-grenades wage war with reason’s meter
it pulls the pins and it counts the syllables–
rearranging it’s fleshy neurochemical electric grid landscape
to suit the non-Euclidean geography of our experience


Balanced Equation

feeling divided/
feeling squared²

but feelings aren’t facts.

maybe it’s all addition (+)
all multiplication (x)
all more than we can survive (∞)

maybe searching through all this living for some balanced equation is pointless

& yet all this thinking — analysis — probing — dissection
seems compulsory when faced with such large integers

even divorce is not division
even death is not subtraction

we are working with imaginary numbers & faulty syntax
grasping for some variable greater than, equal to, & less than zero.

(>, =, & < 0)


I often wonder what the archeologist would find
if all the words were scraped away from me

shedding songs & stories
revealing the naked unknown within

bare of all poems and quotations,
an entire thesaurus stripped from the crust

there are ways the self is wholly unlike the earth

from outside to inside:
fertile loam
outer core

& yet you are here—
looking into my liquid eyes
as if unafraid
of what lives here
— towards the outer core —
as if you want to know
what’s beneath all these words

The Outpost

The Outpost gets quiet sometimes.  & I’ll use that time to scribble out these signals to you (dear one, abstract as you are).  Sometimes it gets lonely out here at the edge of time & space.  I have to reach out.  We are more than our jobs after all.  & sometimes I just have to reach out.

You see, The Outpost isn’t far away (from you, abstract reader, wherever you are) but it’s somewhere you have to show up to.  You have to seek to arrive.  You have to keep asking to find it again.

& that’s how (many years ago — or was it this morning? — or maybe sometime this week)  I find myself working as Typist #2721FE or “just another dreamer” in this place where the light of every god is indistinguishable from the light of my own.
this place where memory moves like reptilian scales through the cosmic dust storms
this place where the rain tastes like rosewater & the cities are built of ash
this place where the wind takes her due & the black blossoms of rainclouds pantomime ancient stories that slip through the cracks of reality

and call

call you

call us all

to look at the sky


I’m not sure if it hurts more to (still) love him or to realize that I have loved (for years) a potential — which is to say I have loved what is not there — which is to say that in addition to the beautiful brutal mess that is loving a human being I had constructed a parallel reality,

and in this parallel reality  I loved a shadow-boy with as much passion and intensity as I loved the real one.

& when the real one was absent or cruel, when the real one faltered or imploded or disappeared,  I clung tight to the shadow I had constructed
[loved the stand-in, loved the actor, loved the shadow]

& with all that love this shadow grew — eclipsing my lover as he shrunk into knowing.

& I, left alone in this vast unknowable, am a fool for forgetting that we are not what we say, we are not what we were, we are not what we want to be, we are not what we tell our friends, we are not what we will be, we are not what we pretend to be:

We are what we are.
We are what we do.


“I am not what I am.  I am what I do with my hands.”
-Louise Bourgeois

The Big Dizzy

There’s a stretch of craggy coastline between who I am and who I want to be.
Icons on the cloudscape — Signals from the present

[I ask for a moment to think
and The Great Poet, that madman’s god, patron saint of the big dizzy;
laughs in my face.
laughs at my arrogance
laughs at my impatience
laughs at my equations while I labor through calculations

of the terminal velocity of us


of the serotonin levels required to maintain an approximation of forward momentum]

(Am I mixing metaphors in this thought-signal?  Can you hear me, dear abstract reader, when I call out?)
This business of being born is more difficult than I remember it being – last time it was easier – last time I was more naïve—last time I still had the right feign ignorance—
but now
I am laughing
at the unbelievable beauty
of the sound of my own breath