2-27 The Cow Cries Alleluia

midwife and maid,
barman and bee,
deliver the cow,
who came
to pray for me,
alleluia, alleluia,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
deliver the cow,
who comes,
to pray for me.

with ovaries and tease,
pious and please,
pregnant and bleating,
journeys full pleading,
house husband,
house husband,
midwife and maid,
why do you pray,
with ovaries and tease,
to deliver the cow
who came to say

moo.

with cilantro and sense,
twice and a price,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
she has been paid,
twice and a price,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
alleluia, alleluia,
midwife and maid,
barman and bee,
with cilantro and sense
you pray for the cow,
who comes to deliver me?

on pitcher and plate,
beer and brie,
barman and bee,
suckle the sweet,
deliver the flow,
alleluia, alleluia
open palms know,
barman and bee,
on pitcher and plate
the cow comes,
to pray on me.

with alleluia, alleluia,
the cow moo's
midwife and maid,
barman and bee
the cow moo's
alleluia, alleluia,
barman and bee,
midwife and maid,
the cow moo's
alleluia, I pray-
with thee.

2-26 Mr. Bumblebee Orders A Glass Of Kitten

tequila simmers,
in your hand,
held, a kitten,
purring,
turquoise eyes,
lost, lamenting,
the dust of a lap,
you curled on,
once,
but, now,
she is,
late night,
comfortable, yawning,
in the after,
chorused lamp light,
a southern curiosity,
of a gentle, shot-glass,
careful ,
rocking, white,
furball beneath,
the river,
of your breath

2-25 I'm Human (Today)

compassion
dangles from my lips,
like a used cigarette butt,
wet in the eggs shells of my
frown turned sunny side up,
from the rotting smell of
breakfast disinfecting,
deodorant streaked paper towels,
mushing the alveoli chorus of
my lung.

2-24 The Bear Wakes and Leaves

this is the house of September,
silence the drums
of the sparrow,
come,
gather the shadows,
the dried roses, burn
and scatter the embers,
the cobwebs, the spiders,
the fools and their spinning wheels,
dim the lanterns,
the sky grows
dark,
with him, above,
the bear, and his thousand
droplets of rain, dripping,
white,
he is awake,

"he is blind,
send him away,
send him away,"
squeaks the mouse
with the fury of the east wind,
from the nightmare of my clutched hand

"quiet.",  I whisper,

squeezing his life,
back to where it came,
undone, and done,
he is, awake,
come, gather, and watch,
all of us, musicians at the fire,
the sky above, turns,
inward,
look down at us,
him, the awake,
with his one raging eye,
rips winter from our breasts,
swallowing, snow, ice, murder,
in his heart, his one silent fathomed rage,
swallowing his own,
eye, looking down at us,
heartbeat,

we do not move, we do not speak,
this is his time, the hunger, claws,
at his hollows to get out, to get out,
he growls, soft  and low into the grass,
the field of sky turns,
he leaves an anger of bristles,
the field of sky turns,
turns, turns,
towards the east,
dawn fades into bloom,
he is undone, gone,

come,
pick up the drums of the sparrow,
begin again,
come,
this is the
house of September.

2-23 Black Needle, Gold Thread

I close my eyes,

five fingers blind, 

black with needle, 

gold with thread,

I sew the living,

wake the dead,

black with needle,

gold with thread,

I close my eyes,

five fingers blind,

sew the living,

wake the dead.

one to his heart, 

which he cannot feel,

black is the needle,

on his spinning wheel,

numb is the man,

with his own two hands,

who stabs with a knife,

one to his heart,

but he cannot feel,

when black is the needle,

from his spinning wheel.

two to his eyes,

for the twin empty hollows,

black is the needle,

which weeps with his sorrows,

blind is the man

with his own two hands,

who threads his lids shut,

with two to his eyes,

for the twin empty hollows,

when black is the needle,

which wept with his sorrows.

three to his right hand,

pinned to the cross,

black is the needle,

which holds on to his loss,

blind is the man

with his own two hands,

who attacks out of faith,

with three to his right hand,

pinned to the cross,

when black is the needle,

which holds on to his loss

four to his shoulders

bent over and broke,

black is the needle,

which puppets his stroke,

blind is the man

with his own two hands,

who pulls on his threads

with four to his shoulders

bent over and broke,

when black is the needle

which puppets his stroke

five is to her,

the mother and girl,

gold is her thread,

which tightens her curls

blind is the man,

with his own two hands,

who straightens the weave,

when five is to her

the mother and girl

when gold is her thread

which tightens her curls

I close my eyes,

five fingers blind, 

black with needle, 

gold with thread,

I sew the living,

wake the dead,

black with needle,

gold with thread,

I open my eyes,

five fingers blind,

sew the living,

wake the dead.

2-22/B Little Fur Bro

little fur bro,
so chill by the fire,
why do you have to go?
little fur bro?

you speak of places you've been,
as if they were coffee in your mug,
you speak of places you've been,
as if you'd return to being been again,
maybe,

tonight, though,
there is the fire, and smoke,
beer and boys, but not the kind
of boys you're thinking about,
boys who have been about,
boys who have seen more
than the fire, and smoke,
in the night, unfurl
within your hands,
fire, smoke, earth,
tonight,

like home,
home, you carry with you,
within your hands, unfurling,

why do you have to go,
 little fur bro,
so chill by the fire,
why do you have to go?

you remind us,
the boys who have been about,
of home, unfurled in your hands,

-home.

2-22 Letter To The Man Upstairs

maybe,
I'll start with the end,
I don't know if you will read this,
maybe,
I should start with
the beginning, except,
I've already been there,
and what's the point,
this is the house of September,
this is how he breathes,

when he walks up the stairs,
we don't look back,

but if you have to ask,
there is a truth in the rumor,
I kinda miss you too,
there is a quiet here,
settling into the walls, while he sleeps,
a quiet I don't want to get used too,
it's uncomfortable,
in his quiet, but before I forget,
the potato says hello,
she reminds me everyday,

to watch from my window,
the sun going down, the sun going down,
the sun going down,  then she hides under
the bed, while the piano plays,
she hides under the bed, except to crawl
in with me, where she curls into my stomach,
keeps my warm, she is love, sweet, unpredictable
love, and she reminds me, everyday,

to watch the sun going down,
from my window, in the house
of September, where I walk up,
the stairs,
and don't look back.

so that's how it ends,
does it need more?
every letter needs filler,

I put the dishes away, took out the recycling,
brought the vacuum out for later, the potato is
going through a shed cycle, so, you know
how it is, parenting, but I washed her blankets,
bought a new toy, which lasted, oh, about two minutes,
but it was nice to see her bouncing around,
though in the wild, they would call that
playing with her food, it disturbs me as
much as watching chickens eat, vicious
little dinosaurs, where is this going?

is this enough filler?
should I write a beginning now?

I don't think so,
the house of September,
is quiet without you,
but that is an ending,
not a beginning, and I

have already walked up
the stairs, to watch the sun
go down,
from my window,
and not look back,

this is how he breathes.
love,

T.

2-21 Kale, I think I like you.

Kale.

(nah-nah-nah)

I think I like you.

(nah-nah-nah-nah)

Kale.

(nah-nah-nah)

I didn't want to like you.

(nah-nah-nah-nah)

but now I think I like you.

(nah-nah-nah)

Kale.


Chew on this.

coarse frilled rubbery
shrubbery that's grubbery,
stalk, chop, pile, chop,
pile, chop, stop

basket full of steam,
basket full of periwinkle green,
basket full of boil, boil,
you know where this goes...

trouble. add,

salsa,
salt,
mustard,
relish,
salt,
mustard,
relish,
salt,
salsa- eggs-

sunny side, right side, morning side,
get up-

fork it.

Kale.

(nah-nah-nah)

fork it.

I think I like you.

(nah-nah-nah-nah)

fork it.

Kale.

(naaaaaaaaaaaah)

fork it.
Done.

2-20 Shakespeare Puts Down The Quill

The wind begins,
blows from the east, this time,
whistling a tune, mournful, and low,
between the cracks of the cabin,
where,

Shakespeare,
puts down his quill,
fashioned out of dust, limestone,
and sewn with threads of sage and cedar,
leans back in his rocking chair,
and frowns.

He is getting old, the day after is
colder than he remembers, his bones,
strong-fragile scars, holding his frame,
listen to the wind blowing from the east,
it has been a long time, since he has heard
his friend knocking at his door, again, he calls,
should he answer, is he ready?
he is getting old, blonde has turned to gray,
turned to white, turned back to blonde again,
and tonight he found gray, in his hands,
and still the east wind blows, calling him,
should he answer?

blonde, ice, in roses blooming,
crinkle on the edges of the page
where he has been writing,
through the nights, the days,
ink rises, in sunrises filtering,
though fog from the page,
he ignores the east wind,
and listens instead to the fairies,
whispering tickles in his ear,
oh Titania, what would you have me do?
a man's desire is to love,
he mutters, wrists as strong as iron,
gripping the polished oak of the
rocking chair. In his frown,
there is a smile, a well-worthy,
earned smile, as he looks over
to the corner of the room, where a viola
rests, quiet, his fingers ache to
pick up the now familiar bow,
who knew he could become a musician?
but not yet, he has a job to finish, a problem
to resolve,

instead he admires its shape, the simple curves,
darkening into the amber liquid of the grain, forming
the hollow, a darkening shadow, over which the strings,
pulled tight, into the muscles of the neck, create lines of possibility,
catching the last of the lamplight, the wind
teases a tune, playfully, for him, calling him again,
always calling him, but he turns away,
the smile becoming a frown, listening
to the wings of the faeries, flutters, as the

page. The last page. He has yet
to write the words, but he is unsure,
a man's desire is to love,
is it also not his purpose?
he turns to the faeries,
flowing around him,
dust sparkling on his pale bearded cheeks,

we will show you the wealth of the world, come
lover, come love, we will show you the wealth of
the world

they had been generous with their Romeos,
true to their word, the ages had brought him story
after story, but each had gone on, to love
another, or another, or not at all, true, he had seen
the wealth of the world through their eyes,
through their lips, their words... promises, but
he had gotten angry, what is a man's desire?

yet this one, this one would be different,
they begged of him, they pleaded, one last
story,

what more could you want from me?
he had replied, furious, a tempest forming,
in his once calm eyes,
I am an old man now.

we will show the world, lover,

you have shown me the world,
but I am an old man now,

fool to listen, fool to believe, fool
to,

look
over again at the viola, faintly, he can see etched
on the sides, tiny snowflakes in infinite detail, on the
curve of the hollow, spiraling in, come follow,
come follow, lover, when they handed him this gift,
this promise, he knew then, it would  be the last play, the last story,
but he did not know, fingers tracing the snowflakes,
delicate strength in the details,
it would be,
his.

He smiles at the thought and then frowns,
again so, quick to frown, promises,

we will show you the wealth of the world,
but you must, promise,

the east wind blows,
gathering strength,
calling louder, to him, lover, come play,
it is time, the viola beckons in the corner,
stirring, in his slumber,

Shakespeare picks up the quill,
what do we do with Mercutio?
beautiful, tragic, funny, Mercutio,
Is it not man's desire to love?
what will become of you?
Did you not love as I did,
as I have, as I will?
Will you not love again?
Oh Mercutio, he turns to the faeries,
they shake their head, he sighs,

he does not have to pick up the viola in the corner
to hear it playing again, familiar,
so familiar, like coming home,
dipping the pen in ink, snow swirling, he ends,

Droplets of rain form tiny bells hanging
from the fingertips of the branches, each
one catching the graying light of the afternoon,
forming a crown over Mr. Snow's head, where he
soaks in the hot tub, naked as the day,
beginning again, naked to Mercutio who is 
getting ready to leave. Drying his face off with a towel, 
Mercutio turns to Mr. Snow and asks,


"So it is to be comedy, then?" 

Mr. Snow smiles, a response flirts like a young school girl,
on the corners of his mouth, but he says nothing, 
what more is there to be said- 

A man's desire is to love.

It is done.

Shakespeare puts down his quill.
The pages disappear in a flurry of
snow, ink and faerie dust,
his chatty companions over the years,
gone, leaving him to those precious after seconds,
their gift though remains, resting in corner of his cabin,
where

he listens to the east wind, impatient bringing the roar of the morning,
grey light caught in his eyes,
forming a hurricane of storms, shifting blues,
and blacks, but his hands are at peace, calm,

we will show you the wealth of the world...

Shakespeare gets out of his rocking chair,
and picks up the viola, bow in hand,
shaking his head, laughing,

what is a man's desire but to love?


Epilogue

the poet closes the door of the cabin quietly,
and leaves Mr. Hurricane to his melodies,
taking the pages of  the story with him,
a gift from the faeries.

the poet is restless, anxious to travel.
looking to the west, where the sun moves between the silver feathers,
of his hands forming a song, he hears a rumor,

come, young lover, come follow, we will show you the world, 
we will show you the wealth of the world, 
come, young lover, come follow,

love,

he smiles, stretching his wings-

promises.
 

2-19 Stone Wept

in the night,
when all the others,
had gone to sleep,
Stone crept into my stomach,
and wept,

for the heart  of  the wolf boy crying,
alone, alone, alone,
in the house of September
in the house of his home,
alone, alone, alone,
me, him, and Stone.

for the boys of the salt,
and the  boy of the sugar, crying,
alone, alone, alone,
in the house of the wingless and fallen,
in the house of their ageless god,
alone, alone, alone,
me, them, and Stone.

for the man who found his,
soul lost to his lover crying,
alone, alone, alone,
in the house of the raven's eye,
in the house of his hungry moon
alone, alone, alone,
me, us, and Stone.

in the night,
when all the others,
had gone to sleep,
Stone crept into my stomach,
and wept

alone, alone, alone,
me and Stone.

2-18 Promises.

Promise me. I feel everything.
Looking into your eyes. Promise me.

when the wind knocks at my door,
I will answer,

Promise me,
you will hold

the door open for me,
cause sometimes I forget,
and I shut it behind me,
Promise me.
,
there he is, love, I've got
to go, he is, I know,
I'll be back, but Promise me,
you'll hold. I'll come back. I always do.
I promise. I have to go.
Love. You.

the wind and I, wrestle,
he wants me to stay,
but
I know, I cannot, stay,
inside where you live,
I am safe,

the wind and I, wrestle,
but from that comes,

incredible, light,
unfathomable darkness,
and everything, everything, everything,
everything,
the arm of the milky way can touch,
me, stretching,  reaching, out, millions of  lanterns,
stars hanging from trees, dripping ice, glowing
wingbeats, powerful, feathers white
silver, black, humming, cello strings,
swooning, caressing, hungry jealous moons,
pregnant, heavy, with desire, cranes in the fall,
calling, and you, as a lover, my lover, my love, love,
and me,
wind,

knocking at the door,
but it is locked,
the wind and I wrestle,
but it is locked,
the wind and I,

can see you through the keyhole,
making dinner- salmon with butter sauce, wilted spinach,
a glass of Cabernet, looking through the baking
book, will it be a crisp tonight?

knocking at the door,
I cannot crawl through the keyhole,
the wind howls too loud to hear my
shadow calling you, the wind and I wrestle,
slamming me to the ground,
I am angry,
and again,
you pour the wine,
pinning me to the door,
the wind crawls between my legs,
consuming
me, and again,
you pour the wine,

I was yours, am his, am yours, am his, he pushes me against the door,
holding my mouth from screaming,

the sky is beauty,
so incredibly full of beautiful deep cobalt light,
stars are upside down dew drops swirling as snow gathers
in my eyes, the sky is beauty,
where I watch you
through the keyhole,

pour another glass of wine,
take a bite of the salmon,
pour another glass of wine,

why did you lock the door?

Promises.

The wind and I.

2-17 The Fifth Visitor

who awoke the dragon,
Autumn hisses maliciously in my ear,
breath, soft, frozen droplets,
pearls to play with,
hanging from the scepter
of his neck,
who awakes the dragon,
green kissed smoke on
my cheeks, curling fog,
between his teeth,
unfurled into the smiling corners,
forming, of his mouth,
doorways left open,
pearls falling from his neck,
he is gone to the house of September,

silent

except for
one light, turns on, hesitant,
Apple, in the frame of the door,
puddle forming at his feet,
roots twisting into the grain,
who awoke the dragon,
he trembles, face falling from
him as leaves, big, curled fingers,
knotting, rotting, into yellow at his feet,
ashes, as breath from,
the house of September,
to the hollow, in the hollow,
of my mouth, sweeten
his words, cider, fermenting
who awakes the dragon,
one light blinks out,
he comes, shrieking
from the everywhere, snowfall,
as a ceiling of stars, black
pressing down, there is snowfall,
flurries,

silent

as Stone bears his weight upon
my chest, still as ever,
mournful crying his permanent winter,
holding me, holding me, holding me,
who awoke the dragon,
holding me, holding, holding,
breaks the cradle, cocoon of my chest,
holding me, down,
I swallow him, unable to move,
I swallow, him, and become,
heavy in the form of him, trapped,
inside the house of September,
as it becomes, the house of September,
falls into the house of September,
folds into the house
who awakes the dragon,
he and I swallow the

silent

me,
in the formless darkness,
afraid, for I know who is here,
with me, on the edges of my skin,
crawling up my forearms, to my neck,
to my mouth, and inside, the little one,
inside, the one who always remains,
inside the one who is now here,
Whispers, to me,

who awoke the dragon?

2-16 The Wind Returns To The House of September

the wind rages,
outside and in,
but he is my constant
companion, and I,
am not afraid of him,
in the house of September,
where we meet again,
the wind rages outside and in,
constant, I feel him, and I
am not afraid for I know
him, the wind, raging,
outside and in,
the house of September,
where we meet again,
my old friend, my love,
the wind, the rage,
the companion,
I know him,
and I
am not-
afraid.

2-15 The Day After Armegeddon

Let it go.

the couch loves me,
minutes go by,
is this what it feels like?
regret where I remain,
refrain, afraid to speak out,
ashamed, Tater in a death hug,
I am,
relentless in my affection,
always relentless in my affection,
the green light blinks,
flip the phone over,
be a boy, I shouldn't have brought
him flowers, white roses, I never
should have brought him white roses,
worn a sweatshirt with dirty jeans,
instead of silk
wrapped in red, for him,
but he is.

Frozen. Let it go. Let it go.
It's not me. Frozen. Let it go.
Let it go.

I wonder if, when
he heard himself sing.
Let it go. Let it go. I wonder,
if he heard,
angry, ashamed, afraid,
he is, not a boy, to blame. Let it go.
Let it go. I want to
blame him, blame me, blame
the four horsemen bearing roses,
and chocolates, was I the  fool, for one
night to want,

a moment in the woods, out of the ice,
out of the cold, a moment in the woods,
halfway, just in passing, scotch, toast,
and whiskey, out of the cold, out of the ice,
a moment,

Let it go. The couch loves me.
Tater loves me today. I love me,
today. Let it go.

I wake up to Revival.
wake up to another silly boy,
wearing white around his chin,
telling me like so many others,
I don't need love, I don't need love,
I don't need, but, looking at him,
afraid, ashamed, relentless I want
to reach out to him, relentless and touch,
remind him, I was afraid, ashamed,
but I refrain, it is the day after,

and I am not,
looking for a moment, or the moment
we had I was not looking for,
out of the ice, out of the cold,
the four horseman are my hands,

afraid, ashamed, I let it go, agree with him
for now, but know, there is a reason,
he sits across from me, the day after,
I am a reason, let it go, let it go,
wake to the Revival,

he is there, looking for a revival,
politely between sunshine, blue eyes,
and the ray which continuously smiles,
hug, he lets me go, lets me go,
was I the fool, he says no words, to me,
as if the couch and me and him,
the woods, never happened, was he there,
doesn't he see, he is the fairy tale, villain, dragon, princess,
and

Frozen.

I am no prince, like him, leave,
to look at my obsession, wearing
tight red spandex, fur peeking out from,
slip, trip, kiss the moonlight,
slip trip, kiss the moonlight,
wolf, in the woods, I will, one day,
have a moment, but right now, he is
insistent, he is not afraid, ashamed, but I
refrain, well slightly, I am still a man, looking
at a wolf, aware that I am looking, at his
infusion of bumblebees, curious about
the honey, wondering, if he is truly afraid,
let it go, let it go, I leave

next door, where he has set up the musicians,
rally of good times and guitar strings, by the fire
in the woods, warm, in the center, I listen,
but there he is, consistently in the shadows of his trees,
my moment, a moment, which may never have happened,
halfway, waiting for someone other than me,
to say, no words, let it go,
no words to me, let it go,
no words,
and I

leave.

2-14 Mr. Producer and I Say Goodnight

imagine a stage,
end of a play,
or the beginning,

there is a couch,
leather red or white,
or brown, but leather,
to the right, tiny shot glasses,
elegant crystal afterthoughts,
of whiskey, or bourban, or scotch,
to the left, only,

the cello plays.

I do not move,
from where the buttons,
have undone themselves,
in pink, gray, and black,
stretched out, as liquid oil paint,
drips from my forearms,
I am looking at the ceiling,
where there should be chandeliers,
diamonds, but there is only

his head, dark and resting,
in the denouement,
on my chest, his eyes,
lashes thick, are closed,
listening to my unpaintable heart,
harmonizing, he is layered,
clothes, gray, folded navy blue,
blankets to his thin form, which has found
mine,

the cello plays,
holds, one last long single note,
low into the light fading,

we do not move,
in this last moment,
in this first moment,
we do not move,
for you, we are

still.

2-13 Chasing Stars

in the lens,
so far away,
you were caught,
leash and a dog,
bridge,
water crashing, brave,
around you,
why are you so sad?

I lower the lens,
gray skies have brought
cold to wrap around
you, once, friend,
sunshine comes briefly,
but the butterfly,
will not rest,
to wait for you,
to smile,

I am happy in this moment,
you reply, to no one in particular,
on the bridge, beneath, the
water crashing brave,
the sunshine cold,
around you, why
are you so sad?


I don't press the subject,
you walk on.
We were as two, you and me,
one, you and me, were as two,
down the trail, I continue to
watch the old man grow up
in the lens, to young for his clothes,
to old for his words,
his body awkward in the mud
and ice, slip.

we don't see the world
the same today, I am not as old
as you, breathless in the almost sunshine
filled with life crashing around me,
wrapping the cold familiar sense of
nostalgia, beginning and ending,
with the lens, growing old,
in the distance, so small,
I see you, trip,

why
are you
so sad today?

I lower the lens.
butterflies chasing stars
in the sunshine,
crashing around me, breathless,
I see you.

2-12 Ravenous

blue as the midnight,
between the souls,
the stars of their eyes,
ear crowd around me,
pressing in their sinking shadows,
robes, hmming, with pale candles,
ooing, needy, claws gnarled, gripping my shoulder,
digging in, tongues tickling the razor edges
on my ears, pressing down firm, squeezing,
breathing, singing, they gather closer,
they want out, they want out,
they want to be heard, one finds my heart,
and twists, the meat, soft in his tears,
frustration building, mounting, wing beats,
loud, overwhelming, howling, one chorus,
after another, together, screaming in my ear,
let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT!

with a click,
 I add a high G note,
unsure, erasing it, then adding it again,
sitting back to look at the black dotted white screen,
brushing away the tickle in my mind,
go away I whisper, in fear,
but they don't listen,
hot upon my neck,
feeding monsters at my feet,
and the one, THE one, who spreads his just born,
wet wings large, veins in blue marble, driven with age,
an architect of the mind, cavernous, consuming,
lifting his sword, his bow, closing his eyes, he begins to play,
burning through the crowd, silver needle flashing,

I cannot ignore him. I cannot.
blisters on my hands. I listen.
clicking away.

2-11 Last Night At The Grand

when the band struck,

the seven chord,

we all were there, 

each of us ghosts,

settled in the chair,

on the last night of the Grand,

raising a glass, saluting the sinking ship, 

ice melting, is this vodka?

tilting a hat to drinks,

as a favor, lips to the mic,

strings almost broken, hands on the keys,

who were we singing too?

one by one, 

we gave our farewell soliloquy,

the unchained animal, 

the architect,

the master Splinter,

the kid released from band camp,

the deviant son of a preacher man,

the snowboarder with a heart of gold,

the newcomer, fresh, smiling unaware in his sweater,

and me, on the keys, howling down the wind,

as one by one, we gave our farewell,

strings almost broken, hands on the keys,

I ask again, raising a glass, listening to the walls,

who were we singing too?

this place must have been somebody once,

must have seen somebody once,

must have held somebody once,

in a grand, sweep of an evening,

I close my eyes and imagine, what the

chatter might have felt like, the jazz

might have tumbled into, the sound

becoming the roar of the crowd, the smoke,

swirling cloves and tabacoo from, their lips,

whiskey spilling diamonds on, the table,

lipstick writing I shouldn't love you but, I do,

left behind in glittered out, clutch purses,

smelling of a musky innocence, from shoe polish, 

silk, cotton, suede, sweat, and the music, the music,

must have been somebody once,

must have seen somebody once,

must have held somebody once,

in a grand, sweeping, crash of an evening,

I open my eyes,

ghosts in the chair,

we become their ghosts in the chair,

the walls say our goodbyes,

one last time I ask,

waiting for an answer,

who were we singing too?

the band strikes the eleven chord.

 

2-10 Rusted

outside it's,
slush babe,
but,
I'll be damned if I wear,
snow boots,
to the singing Monday night fashion show,
not so sexy,
in the slush babe,
good decision for bad girls?
hmm, I hear you,
but now I have to tiptoe,
this princess through,
the
(arm lift, what a handsome man,
thank you, kiss the cheek)
water logged,
platform of a stage,
toodling in the slush babe,
what's another soggy night,
but glitter on my kinky boots-
rusted.

2-9 Raphael

I am not sure what he is.

hush by the fire quiet,
except his wings,
feathers swirl in brown,
and black ink, quiet
by the fire,
there is form there,
I can feel it, when I rest,
my head upon his chest,
hush, but it is there and
not there, in the quiet,
he tells me
and not tells me,
to hush, in the shadow
of the fire, of his self, to hush,
in his form, this is
the second time, I have
been with him, by the fire,
hush in the sheets, the first,
he was me and not me,
I awoke, awake with silver stitches,
on my back, and a memory,
of him, love, him, love, and
have been looking for,
him, love, him, angels,
and demons, love, him, love,
but there he has been, hush,
by the fire quiet, shadow forming,
all this time, older now,
in his cradle of form,
disappearing, hush, faceless,
form, disappearing, how will
i know him when I wake again-

Raphael. I whisper.

2-8 Straight Heroes For Gay People

he liked pussy,
and bull riding,
though I like bull riding too,
and well, we all know,
where I won't sit on the subject,
of eating pussy,

(their words not mine).

in the first five minutes,
they reminded us,
those who watched,
that he was a manure streaked,
stained wrinkling, ugly, coke snorting,
paid roast leather lickin',
rotting from the outside in,
penis of a man-

straight. I almost turned it off.

This is who they choose to be our hero.
This is who they choose for us to look up to.
This is who we will praise by the end of the movie,
when the white inconsequential data quietly assumes
the center of the screen.

This is who we will give awards to for celebrating
his story, our story. This man. This anti-hero.

The man is angry because he doesn't want to die,
by the end of the film, I don't want him too either,
except we know he will, he yells, and flings shit at
the drug companies for treating disease as a business,
treating him as a business and yet,

who profited from the buyer's club?
who? We are collateral damage- to him.

there is an awkward Schindler moment,
when they give the man a free house,
I wanted to cry, I wanted him to cry.
but,

he doesn't,
like us he's afraid to die,
afraid to die, like us,
caught in a corner,

this is our hero you choose for us.
this man,
this.

Why?

2-7 The Ovulating Storm

forecast calls for,
ovulation,

oh,
oh,
oh god, the cramping,
the flurries,
it's here,
pushing, more flurries,
twisting pain,
flakes flurry,
hurry, twisting,
pushing, swirling,
burning on my,
cheeks,
fever flesh, white,
pink, red,
stripes,
sweating, craving,
so hungry, so
incredibly hungry,
oh god,
oh,
between,
my thighs,
drifts, piling up,
building up,
inches, hot flashes,
more inches,
the cramping,
flurries,
must have,
must have,

the heart screams out loud,
oh god, oh god, oh god,
the heart screams,

craving,
running out of time,

hurry,
forecast calls
for,

rain.

2-6 A Knock At The Door

at first,
there was quiet,

in the house of September,
when the cold north wind blew,
she blew softly,
at first,

he slept,
I composed,
waited for the finches to arrive,
watched my shadow watch
the sky, turn blue, looking
at me in my head,

when the north wind blew,
cold, he blew softly,
at first,

kissed my forehead,
gentle, then

slamming on the brakes,
squealed through the lawn,
ripping up the green fury,
in his eyes, unleashing,
his manic howl,
while she held on to me,
quietly, arm in arm,
watching me watch my shadow,
watch the sky turning blue,
we've been here before,

in the house of September,
when the first flakes fell,
there was one, me,
and him, and then
when he awoke to the car crashing,
outside, alarms blaring,
tires squealing, beating,
knocking at our door,
while she quietly held on to my arm,
he came downstairs,
wide-eyed, and then,

when the cold north wind blew,
there was two.

2-5 Waiting For The Green Light

I got a,

head cramp,
muscle spasm,
knee jerk,
from looking at my phone,

whiplash, crash,
rolling over,
belly up,
reaching out, arms
hands, fingers, on all fours,
quarters.

digital death.

jazz hands and lullabies,
clear skies, bright, white,
cotton.

I asked him how to guesstimate the weight of Yukon Gold.
Son of a preacher man, who are you
to kiss me in the moonlit gluten-free baking aisle,
yellow roses blushing I ran,
into the apple table, everywhere beards and blue eyes,
and the cold, cold, clear skies of conversation,
I bought caramel, kale, chorizo, and

cotton, white,
bright, skies, clear,
lullabies, hands and

jazz,

candelit, prostrate,
on the carpet, hands
folded inward,
afternoon turns,
to noon in my head,
I think of him, smile
in the fire place, smoke,
evening time paints color,
color flickering on my hands,
blue instead of red,
soup boils over,
with polite conversation,
and then,

I turn the light off.
I walk upstairs.
I snuggle into my sheets.
Tater- Tater- Tater.
I fluff the pillow,
and.

night, me, and a dog-
warm.

2-4 Bumblebee Infusion

it's what I do,
time irrelevant,
smart irreverent,
(shrug)

self-important,
not withstanding,
you're endearing,
you're endearing,
it's encouraging,

wandering,
cemeteries, Texas,
coconut milk with
breakfast, 3:00 p.m.
wandering,

one of these days I'm gonna lose my shit,
and then I will

blush the punk into your hair,
curl, curious, fade,
bumblebee, sting,
back of the neck,
curious,

so casual-careful,
carefully, casual,
curious,

what are you,

wearing,
when you slip,
hip-

off,
but I'm wandering,
am I wandering,
but it's irrelevant,
but I'm curious to-

see the moon with my fingers,
slip the hip, lips, see the moon,
with my fingers, slip the hip,
shadow lingering long to slip the,


but it's irrelevant,
bumblebee,
but I'm feel irreverent,
and you're...

(shrug)

curious.

2-3 Child of Eden

If I was made in the image of god,

then am I not perfect?

Is it not in my desire, 

my nature,

to revel, glorify my light,

as the wilderness,

to wrath the light,

upon this earth,

within the spark of creation,

create a garden of eden,

to fit this perfection?

Is this love?

Why should I have the patience to be understood?

Why should I expect you then,

to have the patience

to be understood?

Brother of man,

I see god in your eyes,

snow,

or I wanted to, once,

I still want to,

brother of man,
I am no stranger to the rain,

but I am not your father.

I cannot cast you away from me,

I cannot drown you in a flood of tears.

All I can do, is remind you,

you are, 

made in the image of a god,

which makes you perfect.

which makes you desire,

your nature, to revel,

glorify in your light,

lost to your wilderness,

to wrath upon this earth,

a light within the spark of creation,

and become a garden of Eden,

which fits your perfection.

But, I,

In the pursuit of excellence,

I created a god in the image of a man,

to glorify the light I saw,

lost to the wilderness of my garden of Eden.

Is this love?

Who am I to argue with the god of  my creation?

And, you,

In the pursuit of excellence,

you created a man in the image of a god,

to glorify the light you saw,

as a wilderness in the garden of Eden.

Is this love?

Who are you to argue with a man of your creation?

In the pursuit of excellence,

I became a man, without a god, 

without a father, without a lover,

without a garden, without,

you,

snow falling soft,

on your breath, 

child of Eden,

were you ever there?

god as man, man as god,

does it make a difference?

without,

the spark of  your creation,

I was lost in my wilderness,

a god, a man,

in my garden of Eden,

without, 

Is it too late to

let go of the 

pursuit of excellence,

and just be,

children,

lost to the wilderness.

light, snow,

Is this love?

child of Eden.

Is this love?

2-2 The Eye of The Hurricane

I am.

the eye of the hurricane,
up the creek,
flurry and fury,

blades, ice,
faces, granite,
the eye,

flurry and fury,
flurry and fury,

I am.

2-1 From The West Came The Snow

From the west came the snow,
And with it, the wind,
changing, changing,
mountain singing to the sky,
mountain singing blue to the sky,
grey.

Tiger pacing the cage inside,
Thinking of his stripes, flexing his stripes,
Thinking only of his stripes, pacing,
Clawing at the cage, when,

From the west came the snow,
And with it, the wind,
Changing, changing,
Prairie singing to the sky,
Prarie singing gray to the sky,
White.

Dog walking up the walls,
Thinking of his tail, wagging his tail,
Thinking only of his tail, walking,
Barking at the walls, when,

From the west came the snow,
And with it, the wind,
Changing, changing,
Tiger clawing at the sky
Dog barking at the sky,

Quiet