Poetry

It was actually a good year, the year before the downfall, a surprisingly good year in our little town. It was a year of bread on the table, a year with a new IPA in our glasses, a year with friends who visited with great frequency.

To...

A good place to hide a drop of water is a stream.
A good place to hide a stream is beneath an ocean. 

A good place to hide a man is among thousands
of other men. Watch how they rush
through the city like water through a ravine. 

I fell on an incline, talus, tibia, fibula, calcaneal tendon mangled, 
red circuits ruptured, body facing east toward a little town named 
Climax and then New York where I once danced in a circle of girls 

Hidden in a dim stall as the muezzin called
all worshipers to prayer, I touched privately
the indelible stain.

She says she lit a candle and placed it under my balls when I was born
because they were too big,

If you had asked me, thirteen, what I wanted
to be one day, I wouldn’t have said it.

The anemone of your dream blooms
inside the vacuum of space.
In your pocket of black wind

He says he’s never really stopped
speaking to God. Says it’s in his DNA, asking
for things.

When my body blew open
the shadow-glass cloud
galloped through me, glittered

I count gulls until they spasm
into numbers, until I grasp
a number never uttered.