Surface

I dive headfirst into the world
without worrying if I will
crack my head against the cement.

let red ribbons leak out,
climb towards the surface.

there are tiny cities in my chest, 

with rosy girls dimming 

their bedroom lights

one by one, 

arms outstretched 

from slender windows,

fingers frigid and white,

reaching out to find the core,

the point of emanation.

in waking dreams,
men in harnesses cling to shingles,
work to demolish a cupola

exposing the ribs of a great bell,
the hull of a boat that scratches the sky.

are there ghosts 

in our future?

are there stones glistening

in our heart-streams?

this is not a poem about longing.

I am done with longing,
says my pink swirling brain
and gnarled lungs.

My heart argues back,
hurling retorts, smashing glasses,
wheezing between its stammering.

do I stop and collect my cracked knuckles?
do I stand as still as a wide-eyed doe on the roadside?

Do I wait for the crash,
or leap back into the underbrush?

12-8-08

it is too difficult to have just one,
each kiss a spark
in and of themselves.

lips in unison.


the heat is off
and yet I am still warm,
bare arms in the cold,

windows too clouded
to see the river

(that I suppose is)
flowing dark and whistling
into this night.


is this what electricity feels like?


like placing a sugar cube
on your tongue,

waiting for the volts
to hit your veins,
make them dance?



we are an entanglement
in the heart of an apple,

nestled in seed-stars,
wound in the white.