the way you find your water after dumping it in the river

it's because we don't want to lose them

that we saran wrap our eyes around

them and want them small as sugars

safe inside our hands

if we could keep a grip on children

tight enough to keep them

from straying to the world beyond our arms,

there'd be no blushing knuckles.

we ball them up in a clenched fist

in love,

is why i shake this fist

with you trapped inside it

with age we tire and loosen

fingers through cracks

caged things escape

like sweetness from flowers unfolded

as worn clothes

and then like sponges grow

able to absorb

a world gone without

drinking it up until they drink themselves,

drink away eyes

drowning in experience sound

that heats your flesh, every atom vibrating, drinking

you can't tell almost

whether it's real or not

when you're that well hydrated

unless you can smell it

like piss versus the water running off your penis

in the shower.

pant

there's a hunting dog

knows everything i'll be.

the past sits in front of me

cross-legged, quiet and bored.

while the future hunts me down.

it's in no good shape to fear both

toes and heels,

i heard a whisper

and with still feet remembered

that sometimes it takes still feet

for to have your still mind.

coat hangers

we keep arms like soft shields,

folded around the things we love.

not you not i

will ever be enough.

shower daily,

brush teeth,

rub smells onto skin like cold touch.

shave face with a thin blade.

put all of it in boxes,

every single drop,

then take them to the deepest corners

of the darkest closets,

listen to the clothes hangers clanging calmly.

i sat behind my coats,

they smelled like old winter.

my knees against my chest

held together with lariat arms.

i smelled the dark,

and the dust coated cardboard,

and heard the hangers humming,

they sang,

"nothing is sacred here

outside redemption."

quiet bricks

my eyes blow steady wind,

i watch living lines bend.

if you listen close enough to silence

someone far away turning red

holding their breath.

they will tell you you're no good alone,

better find someone soon

like fingers cracking when they bow.

can you press your hands hard enough,

to stop the blood?

what won't you make it to?

like losing something,

like holes in every pocket,

is a mouth not praising.

calling

it's in the nights where

the clouds look like sheets

of grey ice, floating on

a starry sea, and the moon

whitens the edges,

illuminates

the cracks between

the floating waters

and dark cold

space.

the moon is just

a beautiful

blinding blowfish,

swimming quickly from the fire

who wants his wallet

of rays,

full of crisp photons, back

to spend as he pleases.

They chase each other around

the world

for lives and lives and

lives.

when the giant orange

hot fish

scales

rub against the ice lensed skin of the blowfish moon.

There will be blood,

and the red will mark

the return

of

rightful rays,

that will burn holes in his pockets,

and the black veil will fall,

and from underneath the sound

of people calling.

the dentist: a lose win situation

my parents are going to new york,

the very weekend i have scheduled

five freaking fillings,

this friday.

they are leaving me on my dental death bed.

five fillings, and they want my wisdom teeth too,

to jar up or something or send off in a tooth truck.

my girlfriend says she has work, and that she will not

be able to drive me.

the dentist says that i won't be able to drive me either.

i'm in a true blue predestined predicament, that will end up good somehow i'm sure.

i hate going to the dentist.

their fake banana splits, strawberries and mints,

just like rabies in my mouth.

little mirrors for my wish to be snow white, teeth.

they drill holes and fill the ivory sidewalk in my mouth,

with concrete,

so i guess the bacteria can walk safe, around the potholes,

from the traffic of my typically fast moving taste buds.

i hope i don't die. or wreck my car. or feel too much pain.

going to the dentist blows

my nose.

she'll cancel work.

praise God.

small

i'm not trying to convince you.

i'm not trying to convince myself, either.

but i heard someone say that God is a silly concept, to think that

he has just always existed. they asked me to explain that. they did.

as if i

could explain that. as if i

could explain anything.

they told me how much sense it

made

for all of this to come from one big bang.

i hear those blasting from the cannons

in movies i like, only

things don't really come to life

but end up in pieces

as the life drains from their bodies

scattered on the ground.

i saw swingsets dripping out the flesh, and tea leaves

steeped and steaming

out of eyes,

i saw favorite shirts crumpled in the meat,

i saw kisses perspiring on the brows of

men dancing with dresses

filled with beauty

that laughed and smiled and thought and

cherished the feel of strong

warm arms.

you could hear the pat of a hard embrace

of brothers that went too long away.

there were many things

in the blood

that was dripping from the meat

that used to be a person, loved, so loved.

the ground's a stinking canvas,

just paint and rotting texture.

i guess that could make sense. i guess that could make sense of

the questions that pound into your flesh like white hot hammers

from your loud electric organ.

i found that even though my teacher

taught me

how 2+2=4, but sometimes 5,

i found that i could write in

whatever number i like.

i tried a lot, and all fit snug against the space

that sits like an old fashioned roughneck against

the wooden fence of equals.

that's the point, they'd wanted to say,

make up anything to make you feel better.

that's what i meant all along, they'd wanted to say.

i put them there, i wanted to say,

i put those numbers there, don't you see, i wanted to say,

but myself, i didn't put that.

i didn't put that there.

i didn't carry the world across my bedroom floor,

to the kitchen

and leave it on the cabinet next to my phone bill,

it's not a number,

it's not a misplaced sock,

it's not a cannonball blast,

it's not any of these things and i can add it up however i want but it doesn't change the truth.

the truth.

the truth that doesn't depend on me knowing it to exist.

the truth that doesn't need my words to exist.

the truth that doesn't hinge on my acknowledgment.

the truth that doesn't beg for my permission.

then why does it even matter, you may say,

then why even worry about it at all, you may say,

that one, that one is a good question, i say.

but you know how you shake coins out of your pants

on sundays when you do the laundry?

yes.

well what is that you're trying to shake

from the living fabric on you?