warm

he blows smoke in my face

so I laugh,

sending good will shooting hard

between soft cigar smoke rings,

past that promising north star,

straight on heavenwards.

the youth dribbles down our chins,

mingling with chlorine water

bubbling between quiet bodies;

shadows cut our faces gentle,

leave pale souls in luminous catches.

we are made of limbs and words tonight:

six whole humans full of

thoughts, opinions, needs--

crammed into my

dad’s old jacuzzi somewhere

in southern Ohio.

but this is good, this is all good!

there is buzzing in my stomach

that tells of transcendence,

the soles of my feet tingle

with a deep acceptance,

hope lies on my naked shoulders,

snuggles close into my clavicle;

even the darkness feeds my skin

fat velvet blessings

this warm November evening.

12:33 a.m.:

the stars

hear our voicemails,

come out,

kiss us goodnight.

we shall see great things from such low heights

we scoop ashes into our dust-born throats,

burnt fingers blackened by sin.

remember those we once were

in battle? struck down by friendly fire:

join us in praying for

__________________ we have lost!

forgive me father,

for I curse

too often,

love too little,

kiss too hard;

I feed on the ghosts of past saints while

fire flickers faintly on my forehead—

(“there are no halos left;

            we sold out last Tuesday")

I am drunk on words of promise:

please say them slowly—

I want to eat it sweet off your lips,

my world reels in

cacophonies of hope,

in bright glitter clutches.

puke up your insides,

tell them you belong. 

horizon lines escape me,

but not before I clutch at their petticoats,

trail into unknown deserts--

we shall see great things from such low heights. 

rejoice!

for I bring you good news

(no shit):

the cynicism shall eat your heart out

while you bleed your soul
onto the hood of a 98’ Eldorado

in some suburban neighborhood

west of Chicago.  

go in peace,

my child.

perhaps after this, we learn to see

When I got home,

I took a walk.

It seemed the right thing

--the only thing—
to do.

I needed to be reminded of it all again,

so I pulled two sweat-shirts

over my head: protect me, please,

against the cold of bitterness,

the chill of insignificance.

My feet tracked through

memories years deep,

slogging through ghosts of past

Chicago winters.

I mourned for what I did not know,

I grieved for all inevitable darkness that followed;

my lament was a howling

of silence--

sacrificed: tear tracks on 

cold-kissed cheeks. 

I found myself

lost in orange street-light shadows;

in the middle of the dark

field, I tilted up—

my eyes swallowed the prickling stars

in great gulps-- they pooled

in my belly like
the pop-rocks we ate as kids,

mini explosions

of eminent self-worth. 

You meant something then 

(and always, always! but especially then):

your life its own

vast miniature explosion.

I found comfort in your years;

they kept me from 

searching my own.

taste & see

I miss you in the dark. 

But only purple shadows

make sense in

dreams

these days,

so I fill the hole

with chattering teeth

too cold to bite

off flesh—

flurries gorge my

throat with

sudden sapphire

swallows

while

lumps of golden wonder

clink into place-- hide

them quick before

they slip off my

arms, fall far

down down &

away!

For when the clutches of

salvation cling to

my skirts, I

brush them off;

my fingers buzz 

with dandelion consequences

too pale to number—never

have I looked

this brave;

but the cost comes

with the mid-morning

sun, when cryptic

light aims itself

straight at my

cheeks.

I find myself: tilting

upwards, fumbling

down;

where are we going

when we stretch ourselves

out on thin 

yellow blankets

and squint directly

at the un-answering

sun?