Those embalmed and those with one leg Those who go away to work every morning The ones who have children with other women Men who write their dreams down Tailors, male and female alike Those with over-large ears Heroes except for Homeric Some who flew Women who smell like wet leather Adolescents, male and female alike The ones who have never been photographed Men who refuse to ride horses Sailors …
Last year I visited the city in which we became friends, and I tried to find that pie place. It must have closed at some point. I never knew its name or address, only that it was west of the expressway. I got off at every exit, muttering to myself that it had to be somewhere, even it was east of the sun and west of the moon. I wanted to find it and order four slices of pie and eat them with two forks—a bite for you, and a bite for me, …
We take for granted the hinges that guide us to the next room Something my dad once said Go back now No that’s not what he said he said Lean into the gravity of what you choose Become the bend the crux a small ‘v’ managed by the mind that can’t be touched in some decent manner, …
snapped enough rabbits’ ankles to know it’s no use to scream I’m sorry into voicemails how many this is the last time’s do you think you deserve at your worst sleep found you with your shoes still on and morning caught you with your stomach leaking into the threads of your dress shirt I wish your shadow would scare you back to well each morning I wish your dreams wouldn’t …
At this point, I have lost track of most of my losses. I try to dwell on fingers and names, the little silences I can take a nap in. They never last that long, and I brew coffee when I rise. It all sounds dire, taking on a doom and gloom that reads biblical to some, more like dystopian science fiction to others. There are more birds tattooed on forearms than actual birds in the sky. Horatio only dreams of a giant robot capable of smashing his enemies, and what clutters heaven and Earth is …
Two tomatoes side by side on the windowsill above the sink, where white paint curls away from the wood—lifted by dish steam as it rises each night after dinner to fog the twin windows, to bead in pearls of sweat on the slick skin of the tomatoes— one, slightly smaller than the other, during the day, together they drink the dappled light, which collects in the thinnest stretches of their skin, pools there, and illuminates their veins, two embryonic skulls resting in all …