unacquired

pulled it off a shelf
dusty mason jars and
filtered autumnal light
surely this will be the same
surely this, this thing of ours
of you and i
of streets and beaches past
grab this moment by the tail
and wring it out
rough towel edges and dripping bitter taste
once was magic
dreams and blankets
now is only dusty
this is old and
this is tragic
i put it back
i shut the lid
i take a breath
and sneeze.

cicadas

blink my eyes slowly
as i come to realize all the things we will not do
choose to play the piano or not
to touch the keys with temerity or tenacity
ask for forgiveness or forge ahead unfeeling
you know a cicada lives underground for 17 years
a crawling breathing husk until it squeezes out
its own shell a 17-year-old prison
these things happen
i let you down
i sit on uncomfortable benches and watch fading white light
move across a cold brown room
breathing shallowly softly behind your shoulder
silently passing time
i once ran 3 miles
i once read 400 pages in a day
meanwhile the cicadas kept breathing underground
a timeless cycle unmarked by earthly misfortune

3 strikes 1 month

buttoned up men talk men talk
mention wall street and children
their children's children
i am miles away
pressed within thick layers of cotton and wool and my own winter skin
impenetrable
haul myself through crowds of people
smile the appropriate smile
suspend belief and sense of humor
until i can reach a quiet moment alone
coworkers and family and friends move their mouths
but i am thinking about eggs over easy
the quality of the yolk and the dignity of silence
i make a motion and say the appropriate qualifying words
it's like an old friend of mine once said
what matters most is how well you walk through the fire

pressed tin into
the side of my thumb
and stood there watching the line of red form
crept up then spilled wouldn't stop
wrapped it up tight
it wasnt until later i noticed
the brown spots forming
on the page of the book i borrowed
i cant give it back
my thumb weeping slowly
spreading across each page
there there i said
it'll be alright

everything is soundless

everything is soundless
noiseless and black
driving silently down the highway
cold hands wrapped around warm coffee
hair trailing and twisting in the dark
dark dark roads that narrow to a point
we are not going to die
we will simply disappear
a mountain range of highs and lows
that simply stops
upon the Great Plains
here it is, proof
that nothing ever happened.

portrait

he coughed
rubbed his hands together
in that rough dry way
brown old skin
receding behind black fingernails
yesterday's old dirt
sharing the space with the day before it
first cigarette is lit and
his watery blue eyes tinged with red
reflect the light from the back yard
"you can see all the way to dry valley" he thought
and you could
at least he wouldn't lie about that
"time to light the kerosene"
but as he shuffles his horned feet
across the kitchen floor
he remembers his words from last night
his relentless fist on the table
insisting, insisting, insisting
how so-in-so is an asshole
and how you must have had it coming
"i should keep some things to myself" he thought
but already the regret was fading
fading just like the milky way does at 5am
the way the light of the fire does on a cold november morning
"i'll light the wood stove instead" he decides
and as he walks out the front door
nudging the old mutts where they lay
the breath rises up from his mouth
a cloud of rank; of unused apologies
"funny how this disappears" he thought
"just like everyone else"

flattened out slid against
the wax and dust
the splintered wooden floorboards
that wrap around the rough earth
this growing pool of oil
a small circle that widens but doesn't malform
the bow the arc the completely-taut string
i dont want to wait to only dwell
inside the wrinkled lines around your disappointed eyes
these days they're acres wide and miles long; the grand canyon
the last of the day's light in your constricting pupil
squeezes around me
a tourniquet around my arm; a plastic ring around your dinner napkin;
the end of a string at the end of a floating balloon
shut me out the specs of dust that form some transient spectre
one day you'll learn too that
i've never been particularly kind
nor have i done anything particularly well