burning up like a star upon reentry
crashing headfirst into the ground

stone fruit

i came into season with the stone fruit 

swelling with the shortening of days

we lay under branches bent overwhelmed and heavy

mouths open to swallow whole what fell

still hungry, you tore your fingers into me

and i burst, too close to rotten to be sweet

or worth-your-while

i came into season late this year

so you spat me out

but sucked the pit till it was clean

not one speck of me remaining

found in a notebook, dated 18 february 2010

i thought i saw your bicycle
chained to a rusted fence post
but upon closer inspection,
i remember my hatred
(the one that i burned along with my pride)
and i carried along with my walking.

we gather in the backyard, in a graveyard of glass where soft carrots poke

their withered tufts through the packed piles of thawing dirt and discarded

cigarette butts.  a collection they keep.  talk in circles around a deep dug hole about

who they've fucked and how bad they felt about it. may as well be picking lice from their

heads, these orphaned children with dicks like divining rods leading them to water. 

they bend and stick their mouths to the ground suck suck suck but all that comes

is mud.  mud and grime between teeth and gums. on this night the rain arrives finally finally

with thunder so loud it shakes the house shakes bones under skin.  they open their mouths to wash

the grime from their lips but the drops catch ash on the air leave dirty streaks down acne scarred 
cheeks and they are filthy still.  scatter like cockroaches, burrow down under rocks, and laugh.

with the motherless gone there’s only now me the woman you the man -

unfit caretakers both middle split and shameful in our own rights

there’s only now a room of smoke and warm whiskey in a stone cup passed

back and forth between us.  we look out to the backyard, to the graveyard

of glass, to the collections they keep, and between

sips and sighs promise somehow to be

different.

some days

my legs work the way i want them to

and i can walk to the corner for coffee

without limping, 

or wanting to cry

on those days i am proud

my cheeks hurt from smiling big

i walk everywhere

carry sacks of groceries the mile from

the shop to my house

walk the greenbelt and down through the tunnel 

where, once, years ago, i sat with two men

passed a joint around 

and sang the blues until morning

walk to get lost, just to feel the 

blood rushing down through my feet

but most days i wake up

and my ankles are swollen and red

i take the stairs one at a time, slow and steady

hearing my bones creak and pop like dim, 

muted gunshots

i thought i could get by, going slow 

until i healed

but spring has come and with it the swarms of bugs

mosquitos and spiders starved from

months of cold

when i sleep, they come up from the floorboards

and feast on my ankles

chewing at a buffet of my flesh

i claw in my sleep and when i wake up

my feet and legs are pocked, open and raw

the bites grow so big they look like

hard, small eggs pushed up under my skin

and i scratch until i bleed

i cannot scratch hard enough

spring has come and i am crippled

trapped inside, steeping in this pain until

i am a tea too strong and bitter 

to drink

siblings ( a rehashing of old times )

The first time your sister pushed the needle under your skin

                                                                                                you were naked, smooth and white.

She bloomed color onto your chest and you exploded

                  blues and reds.

You cried like a baby and shook under the needle and clenched your toes and 

                                                                                                                                 whimpered.

                                                                                                                                                                       

She laughed when you moaned,

and begged her to stop. 

Told you to grow up.

                                                                                     Grow up.

You came into the shop a boy and left still a boy

(but stranger, less of the one I knew)

and when I peeled away the dressing and rubbed lotion on your broken skin,

I pitied you with love.

In the night, you leaked blood onto the bed sheets.

I didn't have the heart to wake you.

the hipster apocalypse

when the world ends,

there will be no vintage merlot

or aged cheddar cracked from

great waxed wheels

american spirits will become currency

-also accepted, coins pressed from empty pabst cans

and when funds run low, 

the only violence in the new world order

will be caused by a collective and universal

nic-fit

when the world ends, and the sun

is blotted from the sky

flannel will be repurposed to it's

orignal function

and beards will be required for much more than

to be, in some tired way, ironic.

the radio static will signal

every hour, on the hour

to anyone still out there, go North to Portland

we've got microbrews and moustache wax,

enough to go around

and from the great urban capitals, first to fall,

will come hordes of youths in plaid

kicking the rubble of their crumbled brownstones

and cursing a lack of wi-fi

when the world ends, there will be no

tumbles, flicks, or tweets

the hobbies previously used to buffer brew-pub

conversations

bee keeping, organic gardening, bicycle repair

will acquire sudden and monumental importance

and when the great migration from once-gentrified neighborhoods

commences, and the bearded, booted army

floods the forest on fixed-gears

we had better pray for clear bike-lanes

and someone waiting at the end of the road

with a camera

because even still, there is no journey worth making

unless someone is recording

and even though the world is done and we have been reduced to 

our most primitive state

they will still need something to blog about.

home, and the many definitions

i can still smell blood in the room your mama bore you

soaked into the wood panelling and flowered sheets

i want to lick the walls, but hold steady

fearing splinters, and the heavy choke of iron

at dinner, across the table, you drain glasses of wine

and watch birds fly low through the valley

while your mother laughs, teeth all too white, 

telling stories of your childhood I was never meant to hear

when we are in bed we peel the stickers from the ceiling that you

stuck there as a boy

and try to paste them to each other so that we, too

will glow like stars

but the backs are dusty and they crumble in our hands

like all your mountain relics, tucked away and left to rot

there are no houses for miles

only craggy rock and pine trees 

fanned out against the sky and bending 

with nostalgic weight, as if the branches could

arc down low enough for you to reach,

and catapult you to someplace newer, 

where your knees are less grass stained and

your father's more proud and 

you have something to show for your years

i am homesick for traffic lights, blaring car horns

hours spent pensively smoking on the fire escape,

a night barely dimmer than day

but we cannot leave, we are urged towards third helpings

you pour another glass of wine

i try not to cry

and all the while, mama laughs and laughs and laughs