when windows are open

when we spin the beginnings of ends
around our fingers tight like yarn
we cut circulation of bad to good
turn the words from should to could
and all the hummingbirds frozen in flight
backwards flutter fall from sight
rhinestone eyes so bright in mind
shimmer and fade seem so unkind
but turn and spin and die we must
to live and breathe and escape the rust
and oil ourselves in tears of clouds
check our parts and shed cold shrouds
smile enjoy this strange second chance
every day a seventh grade dance
awkward nervous filled with promise
the days of spring are fast upon us

and i lust for it’s sweet scented touch

outrunning the storm

along a black hole horizon
there glowed a soft parade
of firefly eyes
in the decreasing distance
it flickered, hummed and rolled
over black pavement night
slow as a summer breeze
slick as fresh candles
slithered a caravan of hearts
choking through the southern sea of night

it draws nearer now in memory
parting potholes and swamplands
and boiling bayou sand
as a shooting star divides sleeping skies
--headlights drowning in marsh air
oil volcanoes bubbling in bowels of engines
windows awash in bugs and dust—
an enormous unknown uncoils
bright before my fluttering eyes
the darkness takes a fall

in the coal black curtain
of a texas border night
simmered salvation
perspirating desperation
quelled by the sight
of eighteen coughing wheels
turning slow, popping stones
crackling ground, rattling bones
a furious fresh breath of rest

and i can swear by the chance of sun
(although then i never thought of one)
we had dug this dust nirvana
this beacon on greased dirt waves
out of the ground
with our own shaking hands
and let a thousand tired eyes
put themselves in a jar
suffocate against the sides
and outrun the oncoming storm

shut the door

oh home
be not
sideways snow blowing lids back
or sharpened wind dissecting lips
(it’s just the walk home dear boy)
be it
solitude
shaken walls huddling feebly together
make a box of metal make it hold fast
for tonight
i sleep
for tonight
what is wrong
stays outside
gnarled cat clawing at the open space
between front door and floor
it’s greased hiss
muddled
in tired ear
i grant you access to nothing so black as the space you which to reach
i grant you nothing
old sound
for tonight i sleep
and you can feel free
to bury me
in your misery
(where mariners tread on clenched waves
and boxers hunch in driven pain
and dandelions wilt before your very breath
take this picture i have painted lovingly
my middle finger extended pensively
what could it mean?
kick the shadow in the stomach take the hurt
run it in circles ‘til it stops
smack the hurt in the face find a place
mark an x on the ground where it drops
and draw a smile
defile dead rhetoric
spit on the grave and mimic
ways in which you were treated
days that always retreated
from the gnarled cat claw of shadow
scraping in timeless vain)

oh home
how could you have known
you have grown from metal
into man
and taken a stand
on two feet
instead of one?

where are my manners?

cracks slowly take shape
in the sentences we speak
spray light all around
the room of our voice
words are knives
sharpening themselves on open ears
carving sound into delicate pieces
slivers of open air we wish to grab
adore and ingest
we marvel at our hunger
because we do not know
how long it has been since we sat
at the listening table
and felt satiated
stupidity is the spoon above our plate
begging for dessert
empathy is the fork on the left
we have not yet used
the one that brings the words
closer to the heart
closer to home
closer to the ones we love