There are only a few numbers I know by heart, these days

And I used to talk to you all the time.

Now I can’t tell if I’m hearing dial tones or just a busy signal.
Maybe you’re wondering the same thing. 

Do you prefer to text?
I’m better at writing my voice, anyways. Yet –

Stricken dumb as a priest, deaf as a disciple.
How I long to be a talking donkey.

Our Father, I am speechless.
Deliver us from Evil?

Deliver me from cutting off my own ears.

the fog gives way to golden; it’s all the same

Everything is smooth,

Smooth as a mountain drive through coastal fog
the redwoods surrounded by
slow-dancing ghosts
embalming to the point you can’t remember
where the sky should be

Smooth as the even breathing you sustain
even beneath the velvet weight upon your ribcage
whether it’s his
or just life
itself

Smooth as the perfect tattoo on his forearm
the black ink blended matte into
skin pulled taut and warm
musculoskeletal and
dully mysterious

Smooth as the condensation arriving like
electrically melodic
guitars
mist that drips clear dew onto the ferns reaching
from the side of the road

Smooth as his voice crooning on
how nothing is fixed
at all
but what a relief to be bittersweet
and aware

Smooth as the murmur of what endures after
how you can notice the broken glass in the corner and
still
drift
away

Smooth as sunlight dripping sheer
gold
through the window shade
sad transparent smiles bent into couch cushions
where you somehow fell asleep

Type Five

The Summer Moon sinks, tiredly
Meteor showers stay their votive fire
Careful, now
The forest has a mind to swallow your shadows.

Yet you whisker twitch, fly off into the night
Hellbent archangel
You snarl when I hunt you down
Snap back like you’re singed,

Like I’m baring fangs instead of faery giggles
Starstruck at the sky, saying
Let’s backpack to Saturn, baby
Across the moons, baby —

I’d sew my body to yours.
I’d stitch my spine to your fingertips.
I’d braid my hair around your heart.
Am I such a burning ambush? 

You’re biting the hand that feeds you, baby. 

Diagnosed with Kierkegaard

Awareness comes to me like watching the moon fluctuate phases.
I am old enough to draw in my eyebrows daily, I am young enough to  skateboard sidewalks between meagerly professional responsibilities.
I trust this is not fragmentation.
Thank you for your commitment to the art of stained glass.

Awareness comes to me like the knowledge of the twisted friendship bracelet thread tangled up in the box under my coffee table desk.
Try to determine the things you want, need, and have been given too much of.
My eyes are blurry.

Awareness comes to me like the rotations of the earth.
Shouldn’t I be spinning out of control by now?
Shouldn’t the speed of light give me a headache?

Awareness comes to me like staring at the Sun.
Topographically, the distinction between enlightenment and blindness is slight.
Sometimes I have my doubts.
What happens if I try to turn the lights out?

Winter constellations arriving, a reading of Thomas Kempis

Today, I am inside of myself.

Can you still see me
Crimped up like the soreness in my spine that
Keeps me from the painless sleep I need,
Can you see how I
Caught the winter’s-eve
Constellation Orion rising at my window out of the
Corner of my eye, how he
Conjures up November like the memories
Casting me from sleep?
Closed eyes finally dream dreams of dancing
Characteristically specific, the
Kind where I have someone to smile at
Kindly yet
Kind of haunting in a way
Considering such recurring factors as a familiar
Countenance not familiar for nearly twelve weeks and I
Can’t forget
Kempis was telling me about true love,
Keen and daunting as
Chiron and God I
Crave that self-
Control again. But

Today,
Concrete kisses have scraped my elbows and my ankle is sprained.