Is full

I do not know where this glow is from.

I do not know where the creaks come from.

I do not know where the stars go, or what happens to trees when the burn past ash and go up, up in smoke and smells.

I do not know if it is morning or night because both are dark. 

I do not know if my feet touch the ground.

I do not know how to sleep through snores or plumbing rattles.

I do not know how many spiders live in the cracks of my ceiling.

I do not know if the quiet is full or empty.

I do not know if we are burning up like a sparkler or down like a wick. 

I do not know how to cool my feet and calm my vessels. I do not know how many freckles I have, or whether the cafe will be open or closed. I do not know what was send under the pirate ship at the lake but I heard that it was bad and I said it was okay. I do not know the green and the blue like he does, or the characters he is yet to fill paper with. I do not know it's burns or it's violence, it's twitches in the night and it's horrorshow scrawled in ink on bathroom walls. I do not know the hair he loses in the shower, or the breathes given in the dark. I do not know the slip of lip from teeth in startled grins from that lady, and why, or why she is not speaking. I do not know why this blanket is heavy. Or why my arms are tired. Perhaps I flew too far. Perhaps too many cigarettes. Burning up like a sparkler, and down like a wick. 

It's not people

How long must I sit here

Hearing through the wall

Watching the clock

Observing the bucket of slurpie melting,

Waiting,

Just waiting

For you to finish behind the door.

Body of Work. historyb

Fidel Castro sits and gestures mildly,
Tongue wagging with Israeli crude oil prices,
Suited with British lapels protruding from a revolution-weary jacket.
A Che Guevara grin pushes and tightens lips,
pointing fingers at the existential crisis’ of President Nixon,
holding bananas behind his back as
the shares for the UFC go down and down and down.
I am kneeling. Faced toward the homeland,
toward Haile Selassie, [the not quite god],
and my phone is ringing, ringing as threat or opportune moment
that only calls once.

In This Room

In this room,
you are here,
and I am here,
and your son is here too.

A clipboard and a man enter. In that order.
The clipboard knows. Knows you better than all of us.
And the man clings to it, as if it will throw him off the edge if he were to re-adjust his grip; oh
I want to hold on too.

In this room,
you are here,
and you stay here,
and we run to different houses.
And the walls come down around us like articles of clothing, torn off madly in a drunkenly
suggested round of strip poker and tequila.

In this room,
where exhaling is sinful
and sneezing is banned
and smiling contorts from well-meant to ghastly

In this room,
where your son stands
and your wife sits
and I wait outside the door
In this room,
we have so little ti/What was the answer to 32 again?


Are you sure?

TEETH

Flung from her mouth in horror
or in fit (I am still unsure)
(and white beneath my sheets)
a gleam catches, fluorescent,
on the polish of her rounding ivories.
Moulded substitutes of bone and latching gum
now sit unsure
perched on the counter
as if ready for second flight.

Given gladly to her
whilst between wars and men
the release of her natural fixtures
an afterthought
of trend (that ugly cow).

Her teeth
(or are they?)
await return on the tabletop.
She is slow to claim them.