this is about truth and and beauty (know it and it does come) as usual. what would you do if you were not afraid? it has to be done, to survive it becomes something without words without any of it, it has nothing to do with you, either. maybe it is that it dissolves, it dissolves me too, the ocean of worthy, more or less. instead of loving me i fell in love with you, and still there is no escape from the Carmen of the mind, heart, and body, disappearing ourselves and fill my blood with wine, help me remember, insist i forget -

 

 

 

 






 

 

 

as though it had not already occurred, the feeling as the end and beginning forever and ever, amen. you knew it the whole time, why couldn’t you tell me? where did you go? you’ll never love me for who i am, yes, this is the story, clumsy and a bit crass, but it haunts you too and anyway, the two of us in this midnight light. i remember the walks. i remember you, i do. we’re not even sure that this is real and we cannot recall the last time, in spoil and squandered hope spent on lottery tickets and gummy bears, still rotting in the sun with all the other deferred dreams i am terrified to name. everyone stays, really, no one goes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 







 

before the war i was a writer (i let you go) in the queen of the lost and always it stays and with the throne. i break it into segments and rewrite, recalling all the little imbalances. in this kind of heaven we weep alone in the forest, wondering what it was that kept hold of your arms, pretending i cannot hear and i will do the same. and it is that, so impossibly consecrated. enough for you to dismiss it and for me to rewrite it again. no one is you. i wait by the phone. i see that we are still the same

 

 

 

 



 

 

when it rings five years past i have already deleted your number, i think, if only i had written it differently, if you had heard me then and kept it for me. that was a lot to ask you, so, so this is the moment where they show you the door, madness, theft, life everlasting, receipt. we even and change the words to suit, the misunderstanding latent in the possibility of real communication, the only way, or twenty ways to marriage, death, and nowhere where i love you more, oh god, why have i forsaken you? please give me the day that comes with gladness and sorrow, help me to choose the moments i wake where we are all still together like the seasons of a never year it never was and i like it like this, now, perhaps this is the middle

 

 

 

 

 

 





 

 

in the new day we erase all hangover of desire into the daily again, pleading, what will it take to be normal? (zachary, i think of you in times like these, i think of your particular penchant for discovery in just how it vibrates, the prescription of the empty and all our broken mothers) honestly i didn’t even think this would be about her, but i see it is now, that was the curse, and you too, a suicidal inheritance i took from you i take it and it is so quiet we lose our minds thinking it was here the whole time, still unable to locate but for cadence and space, yes, yes we sing, you know it is here. in some way you must see that i saved you from it, however inadvertent, the whole thing is

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

then here it is again and perhaps too have we arrived (so go). i realize when i finally see you that you are not you, you are not a chimera of who you are and who you wanted to be and how i took it and the latest trends. the flame will be so bright that you too (two) will disappear then there it is again, both the ghost and the fire in a garden that never tarries. you speak in wordless tongues and it is true, i am happy as your long loving lost slave.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

you see, the problem is that i have no patience but in you and this is where it all went and anyways (i do not answer) organically it unfolds throughout the pages and i will be holding onto three words i do not know, and i don’t care if you love me either, or just let me give you all the things. wherever it was that you really heard me, i need you there, i need you now more than ever, and all i am is here to make sure the kids get paid and you will never need this and i am not allowed to need (okay) i need not, and here the three words reach you through a string with cans connected on either side and i am a kid too when the can sits in the bottom of a drawer you have never opened, that you did not know you had, that you do not want, that you never asked for

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

what i would have said is that if you are going to leave i would have liked you to leave now. i mean it, and we we should have known like you did, i wanted you to remember how i was better before this, and that is where the ache starts, you are no saint. but i see this and i can handle myself tomorrow. if it were not for certain entities (they are your siblings with me) i would be on the next slow sickness it takes you too from me, it takes two to let me clean my body and drink my wine, drain all these elephants that reside in my bones, transplant our iniquities into the water and i will be here now praying until the oceans are clean  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

many years ago when we swam all the way out the sun a distant memory and your skin taut with time, not enough fruit of the forest, never enough blocks, a distant future quarrel that cabin now reminds me only of what happens later, where your mother knew, she never liked me, we were too similar for that. i think of sandy sheets, i think of how you pulled me back and maybe that really was where it started, the expectation

 

 




 

 

 

i consider that perhaps it is not possible to truly look at all the words spoken, i never wrote to you like this, before, there was no book. i thought it was for someone else so that is probably also why. i cannot recall what i said then but in you and once and glaring, forgiveness like a child will never forgive, unable to point to where it started, an amnesia of time and sound, so cryptic and so still broken and dead like our mothers (now) oh! this the un-grantable, and since you’ve erased the importance of the word into stills i dream of you, swimming in the lake, someone sent me to rally the troops and i piled them all into my little car, i drive over mini mountains of filthy snow ice fast as i can and when we all came the water was warm, it was just for that couple minutes, that she maybe had, that she saw my place in the longing and in forever again, where you all swam (forgive me) and i wanted to take your photo so much it absolved me and the camera wouldn’t work. i keep clicking and clicking but the phone keeps getting stuck. i knew it was too dark to take photos and they would not come out right but i still wanted one i needed to remember this

 

 

 

 

 

it took a while. i didn’t understand why the others were a part of it. perhaps it really was that after all that time that i became and i had to be that for you, i volunteered, i blame myself. when the escher triangle appeared in the sky like a shining neon sign through the clouds i insist - it is a slow burning firework - when it pops and fizzles i am sure it is my fault for thinking so. i keep saying, i’m coming to swim! just one more moment! but by then everyone has emerged from the dark dark pool, everyone is drying off with our dead friend’s blanket, cloned, he is still dead, the both of you on that beach with the skyscrapers behind you, and maybe i looked back to see you. when i wake up i know i will give you my firstborn child and in your name and you will do the same and neither of us will ever know because i blocked you also on all social media outlets

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(then) maybe, in the quiet the long past wake of the battle i did not attend, maybe this is how we say goodbye, i say it to you who are me we are the same after all this, i would bet they are same fits of this, and i did lend not my arms.  i forgive you and me many times, i say it out loud. when you arrive there is no one to speak or wave to, these things become lost with the dirty rags, stolen socks, carless spasms, angry deliveries. you’ve not thought of this in all our years and i never could have dreamt - instead i dream of a hidden shelf, i dream this is all real.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to find the shelf we crawl up to some hidden attic apartment keenly decorated that sings of your health, reserve, i have been here so many times before though this has never existed, this space, but things are better there now and beneath the things piled on top of it you detail a perfect world you have no desire to believe in, you see, i was even then a lost cause. i look to you, wondering how you could have forgotten the contract of our souls and, unable to give you my tears or shame then respectfully you pretend not to see. we swim in your little luscious bay you call your own outside the palace and it is like i have stepped into your dream, too, and in it you want me to simply observe. the fishes suck at our flesh like koi like exaggerated carrot shaped leeches and someone reminds me how i should have gone to Austin instead. i pick them off. i tell them i already went.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

because other people are there, too, i love them maybe because i loved you, i love you for the sake of this, the relentless avalanche that blinds and through lonely operators and sad like the dog who, upon waking is afraid of my hands like i am afraid of the others and like the others, this is not woe, this is not about me. later i trudge through fields of heaps of vines with little flowers and little foods on the vines, angel hair piles (thick) and as tall as me, in rows. this would be your backyard, i think, i look for you and though you cannot, do not drive, you trample our teenage years as a dark dark dark jeep through the fields, caring nothing for all the flowers, the little bugs, as though you are certain they will mostly grow back and could not

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

certainly for the symmetry, i imagine you looking back i guess. (so) maybe you stop however many yards away just out of sight and through the trees to weep with me at what we threw away and all the dead children, too, at what is never coming back. we leave it all there and die from neglect. when i wake i sing your song, and i guess too i do allow this perpetual griever, in it the mire of hope and respect for what or will we ever know, it takes many days, years even. i do not realize it as it happens, i take down all the notes from the box on the ledge, the wheels collecting all the dirt and dust that came with it. i wash the things, i put it on the shelf, i set it out to see

 

 

 

 

 

WINTER 2015 - 2016, OCTOBER 2017