Emergency Exits

I ran face first into last summer 
while sorting out 
a repeat of last spring
in line for lunch,
for a concoction conjured 
to relieve the humid boredoms
designed in spite
of distaste for (melo)drama—the kind now
tugging at my leg
in prophetic visions starring
bill murray and an alarm
clock that sets off
cold sweats and forethought—excuses 
to get out of this pollinated
mess of new leaves
grown in animal heat.
and considering lust lacks a conscience for us
it is fitting I’ve already cooled off
and moved on.

Good Reasons For Leaving

there are few distances
          that can’t be breached
today, old longing memories
          are usurped electronically
by trickles of youth’s data
          turned to streams
reunions become clicks hello
          the update’s nice
          but could you all
          go back to when
you regularly ignored me?

Cataracts

It may almost be better to go on half blind
and wander aimless away from the gaze
of the shepherding legions who are paid to mind
out of coffers opaque and untraceable when
all the interested parties appear intertwined

in mahogany smoke rooms of shadowy men,
the popular figments that time has refined
as the image of gilt, ostentatious display.
Relief at the ease of displacing our sins
onto secretive men with nefarious ways

has the helpful effect of making a pen
out of what was a hive. And our playful signs
become empty rituals for passing the days
averse to the risks taken out on the limbs
and accepting of what’s seen with atrophied eyes.

Untitled (Static Fragments #2)

These dead eyes, this blank stare
Do not lie; they are mirrors,
Reflections in bulletproof windows
for you.

Little narcissists take in,
But they don’t project or give
So don’t forget when you gaze
into cold,

Sodden nothings, those
Unflinching pupils with irises glazed
It is you, that is your own fear

Watching you reach toward this
Pair of fogged, bloodshot jade
In time to remember it’s me
who’s awake.

November

you make it so hot here,
i sit back and sweat. let’s
not let go, our eyes
prisms we'll rust together
in pieces to get out
the salts of raw thighs.

i taste your oils—
please, savor the steam
condensing on walls
where windows thrown wide
it smells of lighter fluid,
you smell like wine.

if there are traces left
later I’ll play detective
just for a last taste of
any lingering suggestion
before the whiteboard’s erased
of incriminating links
just to make future space for
your invisible inks.
                                   let’s
hope teacher knows
to draft fresh air inside
lest the students get wind
and melt in their hides,
from steam that we made
with windows thrown wide;
that spyglass made fire,
you still smell like wine.

Dreams of Better Jobs

you were in need
of tiny arms
embedded in a chain
of subterranean gears.
he’d been caught
drinking straight
chlorophyll again
on an overcast day
like a ring of reflective puddles.
and too many
podiatrists were
receiving office calls
for anyone to recognize
the ordinary
nature of their shift
in gait.
              it’s all
the heavy lifting
you’ve done and I
can understand
the adrenaline rush helps
but maybe, just
maybe, you should
let the kid learn
his own tune. sweeping
the floor is american
              zen.

(Static Fragments) #3

I have days
when my field of vision jerks
and shifts. That blind spot
in the middle
that the brain makes
up? It’s always fine
while the rest, the processed
input shatters.

One time
I thought all the light
fixtures loosed toward
the floor. Another day
an entire room
jolts to the left.
I just stand there.