cassavetes pt ii

a suicidal instinct can manifest
in one’s choice of partner
we push each other out of line
and hope to make chalk lines
out of these piles of snow

when he says: let’s drink and drive
i spring for the 12% abv
when the road twists ahead
my laugh echoes off the shale walls
i know which songs to play
to make him push the pedal harder

in the living room it’s drugs and guns
in the bedroom it’s hands around throat
in the bone room housing my thoughts
it’s a prayer for ultimate release
from loss
from need

i tried to be good with you
and bad with him
but you were a rock
and i wanted a blade

like i said
these girls they love a bad boy
these girls they crave and beg the lie
you got this starring role, kid
your death scene will sweep the Oscars
we all love the ones
who let us see them bleed
we love the loss
we hate the need

when the waves crash
when the hurricane comes
god it hurts so bad
to cling to a boulder
beaten by the surf
with little hope of rescue

i looked at you and saw a certain
hope i hope to hope for me
i looked at him and saw
the same loss
the same need
perhaps you can’t believe

but i always held you dearer
still: one can smash a mirror
make a blade to make it clearer

the sharp turns up on the mountain
felt like a kind of salvation
show me grace
if i ever try to fly like this again

life lessons

yes take your little hobbies
practice well and be well
rounded and keep your curves
your figure little piggy
your body is your greatest gift
the man the man that god hath planned
shall receive with joy

yes do your little work
place invisible trophies
into tiny cases in case
someday i’ll glance your way
and find some pride to spare
but know it’s unimportant
there are people starving out there

yes watch your mother’s example
as she slaves and loses sleep
and weight and time and hair
it’s her fault; i never wanted
these stringent rules, so many kids
god has called me to higher things
than the family i made
there are eight of you
and eight hundred of them

yes watch your tone
wear the longest skirts
don’t curse in public
it’s bad for our image
don’t dance where people can
see you don’t date unless
you’re married don’t go
to the movies
with your church friends

if you don’t do as i say
the churches will not pay
our family photo
is a matter of life or death
see all those starving people
they all rely on me
are their deaths worth you
having a good time
living a happy life
and what about us

this is where the money is
i can’t work for a boss
i shot my knees in ’93
dropped out of school
to shoot pool and snort cocaine
and chase girls and reo speedwagon
on the motorcycle that nearly killed me
with my friends in ohio
you’ll never have to feel that pain
you’ll never get to feel that high

please stay inside your box
don’t cry
daddy’s gotta go to work

compared to all the local celebrities

this box of brains
feels so much less
than special at times
wishing that my favorite
artists weren’t so uncool
or that i cared about houseplants
and had an eye for decorating
or a gender identity
or that i played tennis really well
that languages would stick
and i could cite theory
while i give you a glimpse
of the horsehead nebula
through my elaborate telescope
before utterly blowing your mind
in lingerie, size six, 34D
this is a shallow desire
for a shallow life
faced with all this
who’s gonna care
that i used to play the guitar ok
that i make pretty good soup
i can define dactylic tetrameter
and understand when you talk
about the difficulties of personhood
who’s gonna care
who’s gonna care
i mean
i can’t even make myself care

two out of three

in the beginning was the word
quickened fluttering in the stomach
given breath and born
into its shape in your mouth
we handle this verbal clay
with varying levels of grace
i missed your mastery of sculpture
the voluptuous, luscious L
like slow-dripped honey
the uh a rounded bubble
rising with its soft throaty thrust
the V carved sharp
by teeth against lip
smudged edge of lush forest
on the warm sweet smell of tongue
an opioid blanket bearing velvet
down the spine and into the core
bruised fruit plucked from stem
and handed fresh to me
no wonder
i always bit deep

lock your own door, pt. ii

should i switch to tequila
in spite of our rotten limes
feet in lead boots
roll me into the river
watch me sink
in defiance of your expectations
oh you thought i’d fight
you thought i’d swim
you did did you
sorry to disappoint
but what’s else is new

my patience is as short
as your memory
or your attention span
or the straw i drew
down on you in my dreams
and you flinched but
lied about it later you said
you love being a target

that cognitive dissonance
is so sweet as a shield
the deviance your decisions
make for you entwined
in the map dad wrote you
as an infant in your early twenties
holding your bottle
of cheap beer and cheaper laughs

we were born free
and spend our lives
decorating prisons

i see your open window
i’ve flown some myself
you talk like you know
that i can’t keep up
like it’s not worth trying
like the breath you’ll breathe outside
will be sweeter
and it will
i won’t argue that

but it hollows out the other thing
and leaves me empty after injection
after injection when i have
this problem where i have
to take matters into my own hands
love is a word you use defensively
so much is a null compared to nothing

you have no stakes
but oh aren’t you the prettiest
room in the world

nocturne: swamp thing

something about standing
in a swamp slimed with pond scum
building a bridge with fallen trees
surprised at what i can carry
these strangers approach
calling me by name
they have a letter for me
mistakenly delivered years ago
when it would have mattered
the envelope is covered with
notes about how to find me
they’ve made it a mystery to solve
they seem so proud

my family has crossed the bridge
i am alone in the muck
with a silver bowl of fresh water
and the letter, flavorless with age
he writes to give a detailed update
his creative process is going well
he has borrowed poems
from his brother’s friends
in the care home in iowa
he has enclosed some photos
you should really try this keyboard

the strangers watch me
take off my clothes
and splash silver water
on my face and hair and shoulders
i can’t feel anything
about his words
i wish i had walked
across my wooden bridge

you know what i love about museums
sometimes they burn all the way down

portrait photography

does a camera exist
which could catch you as you are
breaking intense focus
to bathe me with a smile
that clicky-tic noise you make
hands deep in a developing bag
black t shirt and simon joyner
playing in the rainy breeze
and grey light soft as your sheets
one bare dirty foot stretched
toward me, sitting on the bed
reading this shitty novel

if you get an outfit you can be a cowboy too

normally you wouldn’t be caught dead
with someone who looks like me
in this embarrassing dress
with the fringe and sequins
and the blisters in my heels

it’s tiring making the effort
nails broken down to nothing
painted hot pink and shimmering
gold like the fillings in your
perfect teeth sinking deep

we still come up short we have this
in common and it’s common
knowledge that sex appeal
matters most of all when walking
hand in hand in public

who cares about the pain in my side
who cares that you have four lives
left behind like unclaimed baggage
your one night stands turn into
diamond pavement and you walk again

i’ll dream of this in december

wet heat so profound
lungs swell shut
the fan oscillates
driving muggy air
back and forth
over soaking sheets
midnight and the breeze
forces garbage flavors
down in a gulp
we are automatic
falling into a haze
of dreams that sort of
resembles sleep
half-wake with sticky
skin iron-on patched
to each other and
i want you but
i can’t move