Like Silence

I held your shoulder while you were asleep.
I swear a voice from behind me
spoke lucid and real “remember to hold her,
to joy with her laugh,
to speak lullabies to her tears.
This life is not yours to keep.”
So now I mold my body around yours,
to never forget the shape.
I keep journals to record the melodies of your dreaming breaths:
the last entry says your heat was like
a river, your heart like a rhythm, your
twitching nose like the final
beat of a hummingbird’s wings before
it lays in its nest.
Your eyes fluttered open like the sun.
My fears lifted with your hand,
like silence.

I Feel Splotchy

I feel splotchy.
Like one-hundred different puzzle pieces
from one-hundred different puzzles,
open ends stretching for another.
We fit together okay,
but our picture is a messy one.

My arm is a branch
with birds for leaves.
My bathroom-tile skin
littered with graffiti,
chafes against
my lighthouse leg
in a Kintsugi shoe.

At night, when I sleep or pretend,
little bugs gnaw on me
and spin their memory thread
through the notches of my railroad spine,
between my scissor fingers
and pipe-cleaner toes.

We get along.

Honolulu Queen

I was given flowers
after the death of her.
They stumped on the desk
drinking each day. By
day three, their love-purple
tint was dwindled, and the
littler leaves drooped softly.

Hunched over, much like she,
in the weeks before her death.
Slumped in her bed, that
un-godly bump on her head,
she grew pale. And sad.

Those little leaves now
are brown. The colors
all white-washed, freckles
of mold dot the creases of
her pedals. Hungover eyelids,
catheter stem from her abdomen
trails blood like blood.

Was it a motivation to
let me watch her die again?
To see her clammy face in
the coiled roses, sad and mute?
What dumb compensation.

The Bonnie Earl O’ Moray

It was Tuesday morning when gravity stopped working. Not for any reason in particular; it just seemed to work out that way. School kids were at school. Workers were working. Parents were parenting. Teachers were teaching. People first noticed that something had changed about three feet above the floor. Albeit, there were a few whose experiences were a bit more queer: Grandma Josie, for example, awoke from her morning nap on the ceiling and to the sight of her living room furniture scattered across three dimensions. Some were not quite so fortunate as Grandma Josie. Poor Reggie Willard happened to be at the gym, and in that very moment he was squatted with a bar over his back; as gravity was switched off, his muscles tensed, but were met with surprisingly little resistance. Reggie launched from the floor, the bar rocketing above him, and died instantly upon the high-speed impact of his cranium with the metal beam.

Sandy Mills was walking her dog when she found the both of them drifting upwards — rather, away from the earth — along with the atmosphere. People watched from the windows of buildings, as she drifted up, slowly gaining speed. It seemed she hardly noticed. Cars, shopping carts, and Susan’s missing cat rose away from the earth, no longer tethered to the soil.

Little Amanda, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. At home in her bedroom, toy rockets were bouncing off of walls; the pillow monster was weakening; soft, white blood streamed from its fatal wounds creating great, swirling clouds of former fowl.

Oceans, rather quickly, were turned to immense fields of aquatic orbs gently moving away from the earth, along with the sky. Animals reliant on such substances for

breathing, unfortunately, met their fate rather abruptly. Coffee, prepared for a Tuesday, rose slowly out of the mug, burning Keith’s unsuspecting hand before dispersing in a similar fashion to Jonny’s asteroid field of marbles when he swam through it.

At the news station, anchors frantically launched themselves in various trajectories through the paper that littered the air, in search for their scripts. John Wayne moved only his eyes as they followed the syringe fluttering around the execution chair to which he was strapped.

The Richards family held on desperately, with their feet above their heads, to the lap bars on the roller coaster as it followed the track downwards.

In the academy, lab-coated people swung through clouds of gaseous caffeine like double rods. Numbers punched into computers just trying to sleep. They insisted, despite the absurdist fantasy of their current predicament, that the numbers loved them.

Meanwhile, at the temple, friends rejoiced in this deific revelation, and welcomed will into their love.

Nothing changed. Ultimately. People did what they were supposed to. Some people cried. The people who were supposed to. Others died. The others who were supposed to. Maybe.

The air moved into space. The planets went their own way. Atoms no longer felt compelled to love their neighbors. They turned their backs and moved away. There was no structure anymore, supposedly. It was just space. Everyone looked the same now. It was all real now. It was nice. The most beautiful spectacle to ever occur. No one cared to appreciate it. But it still happened. It kept going. It was not ashamed. It was not embarrassed. It kept going. It happened. It did. Big puddles of space where light had

amassed went out with a blink and a bump. There were no more fevers. There were no more mirrors. There were no more fishes. There were no more conversations and no more font types and no more erasers and no more blinks and no more statues and no more bruises and no more memories and no more lines and no more traffic and no more love and no more hate and no more songs and no more cancer and no more hope and no more death and no more life and no more mothers and no more freedom and no more gods and no more voices and no more advertisements and no more tally-marks and no more words and no more drawings taped to refrigerators and no more nervous dates at movie theatres not paying attention to the film while trying to muster the confidence to put their arm around their date and no more dreams about fathers who had left when she was only two years old and no more ghosts. It happened. It did. I promise.


October is hurting again,
a rag-doll, dumb-drunk hurt.
No method or madness
anymore. Just
stuck-up, tongue-tied hurt.

I miss old friends with their
tag-team, seamless hurt.
All to see now, the
dry-rust leaves and the
ice-pick, guilt-sick hurt.

And I want to lie and
say it’s better.
But I just
drop-dead hurt.

Word Collage

glassy wind button
wrinkling cushion carnal lust
pinwheeling nakedness
sunless needle
winged kiss bone white
wonder thumb lemon gall
full weight
absolute tender mouth mill
boot flute funnel flask
orgiastic spices color young
kettledrum swallow
dumb croak merry narcotic
static dionysian love
garden tadpole dizzy drunk
showy lichen
bulbing yielding waxing ballad
subtle ivory phasing cradle irony
sore stringy vessel
tunnel drug
scuttle swirly trial
nocturnal silk vexing
mean pretty capsule

You Look So Small Now

I was thinking of you today.
There were children in the park
watching the clouds;
one of them said it looked like a spaceship.

It reminded me of the times
we would lie out with the
clouds, as they fell on us.
You said it looked like God.

I know you said you’d always be here, listening,
but sometimes I still wonder
if you are anywhere at all.