Consideration

I collected these slips of paper,
this evidence for your consideration.
We forget to wash our feet before
bedtime, before the sheets cooled.
There's a price to pay, but it's
invisible, a shadow you mistake
for someone, a little orange
light in the doorway. We'll wait
and see, but I doubt he's coming.
He hasn't smoked cigarettes for years.

Kaspar Hauser

I fear I am
still learning your expressions,
the way your eyes move from the page,
your voice straining
on the transmission.

I am the boy up from the cellar;
every man a soldier, every animal
a horse--just toys, enigma, wrapped
in the difference between sleep and wake.

We bring in the tree
from the cold, protect it
from the snow. The cardinals feign
curiosity, enigma between the folds
of their wings.

We may never know
the birds again, isolated
from hearing them--amnesia
the magic that creates
the hunger we need
for trespassing.

Berserkly

I find myself disenchanted
with the typical hit and run
at Telegraph, or Dwight.
This time, the blood spurting
from the poor chap's nose
is the color of pavement.

Everything is gray today, washed over
in old movie style. I let out an "aww"
of concern, automatic reaction, before
looking away. I can think as straight
as I can see, which isn't good.

I slowly cross, a small cat
the color of pavement. If I'm lucky,
no one will see me. If I'm lucky,
no one will care either way.

The Lost Friends

They said it was easier to do with eyes
shut, lips closed, but your mouth is
a wound, all red and shining.

If I pretend that nothing's wrong, will you ask me anyway?

The moon is round and cancerous
tonight, a tumor hanging from the sky.

Patiently, I rub
my mouth, my wound;
corners drawn smirking,
waiting for the clouds to cover.

I wrote a letter to
you, sitting in the cold.
I sent it through whispers,
short breaths, visible like
smoke escaping.

If I pretend that nothing's wrong, will you ask me anyway?

I feel like a nuisance, so I keep my mouth
shut.

Sometimes a Pen is Just a Pen is

over Six
double-spaced pages,
my love
s t r e t c h e s.

God,

my hand is sore.

And yes,

I give you
permission
to laugh.

Philanthropy

Your ideas are refugees. I watch them
fold in hunger.
Then again, I'm cheating because
the blindfold wasn't on
all the way.

I whispered something
to the predictable hero, but you
misunderstood, and now I'm left licking
the crumbs
from your collar.

Skinned Knees

Let's contemplate and calculate how many kisses count toward the total. There was the drunk Coca Cola Santa at that party. There was that grocery store clerk with the blue hair. What was her name?

I wonder what your dreams must be like, all musty and green-stained. I bet you even wore that smirk to bed. I bet you memorized every time the actress laughed on the TV. What was her name?

I wish I could read your handwriting, your statement, words gunned down, unprepared for your exploitation. The caption falls out of your mouth, a wad of flavorless gum. Why am I so patient?

Switch

I did it because
I was tired of waiting.

Allow me to re-
consider the fly on the wall,

tired of waiting
for gossip to come.

I.

The spider you killed—smeared—on the wall is
still there—a sad painting, a dab of brown oil.

I just see it—my eyes don’t focus, they interpret,
interrupt the light patterns, then send up a code—

The trouble is that the painting could look the
same upside down.