it could have been freedom

did we replace the jungle of leaves,
with a jungle of thieves?

for there is plenty of wind in both
and

the ground feels all burdens.

a bold wind can blame the cholera
for chimera,

when the noises heard from opened windows
carries a neutral, nerveless passion

killing you to freedom,
killing me

indifference

and the last bit of child has left me,
was left by me,

in the spring of 97'

its skin dust settles sour
in the lungs of us all.

a moment in waiting tables

you told me you where done.
standing behind

our wall,

shoulders bow bent and
stranded,

holding the weight with surprising
enthusiasm.

"I'm done with now, I could die," you said.
your words, moral and

justified, mumbled between


turning tables like tricks with your
blouse cracked.

your straight teeth teasing, allowing them
to see how lies can

blow luxuries into glass-to gain
light in silence.

and, we make the salted butter in house.

And I knew it was true. because
your eyes where gone,

unfocused

telling me nothing. so I knew it was true.
why not I thought silently,

you've seen
you've tasted

been tasted, with boring tongues;

and its tiring believing
that only sober eyes

see the truth.

I offered you the night,
the skin

required to sleep, but your answer was no.
so there's nothing I can do for you.

water records

i take my contacts out. let them drop
into an old water glass

dusting its circle clean.
its satisfying

to take the day
off the eyes,

to see it floating in jobless water
thats casually leaving itself

to dry.
they say there's memory in water,

and when ripples widen, its wrinkles
are writing down

all the sounds we make. I'll take it soon
to the sink.

letting go, the sounds it keeps,
like water records

we'll both forget,

as it joins itself below the street-
and then the sea.

and the tide
gets high

laughing, yelling our quotes
to the moon.

I hear them too, from my opened window
microphone; only the nouns are verbs and

there is no room for why. but the moon
doesn't get it.

and neither do I, but we both smile
because the ocean is funny.

old noodles

what now clutters palms in rash repair
settles debts with jesters,

spitting loudly, and calling out
bluffs settled by jesters-

when the days where blinks
left to up to

the Sun.

you asked me how we could dine
selfishly-on the flesh, grown

so thick the bacon curls
itself-

and in an instant be strangers.

you ask me with sounds, incomplete

but with purpose,

unmouthed, but leaking through the hole
in your shirt.

you left the party early,
but my jeans still smelt of lipgloss

and the story you told me, about a knight
who slayed a dragon,

and lost the ability to speak.

I know now, that you could never be loved
between stares

and that lunch you spent alone.

I will never know all the bands you think
are cool,

and why you need to be stared at
constantly.

but you could never be loved

will always

be loved by someone
giving it to you hard, like old noodles

stuck to empty bowls,
turning white.

the blood is built to clot. so to not
let the lot of it

leek; into an opened air calvary
branding for keeps-singing,

breathing mischief.

u bleed like passengers in an airplane
sleeping, letting the rain drift off

unnoticed, until the landing strip appears,
on schedule; and then you forget the names

of your neighbors standing in line for taxis
heading outbound.

u bleed like jokes written for lawyers,
balanced,

because its funny when it's balanced.

we are funny, levied between floors and a
lifetime of light

defining shadows
of words uninvented, to keep

the sounds inside

and the hands soft
for touching.

but it feels right to touch. fingers sailing,
north to south, learning everything

there is to know, while the mouth is closed

and nothing is spinning.
not even the watch you keep

on your nose, letting me know
when its time to leave.