you wake up feeling like a freshly peeled wound,
thirsting to squeeze some profundity from your first words,
but it’s usually jest for the same deity’s name everyday,
as if he were right there next to you, sleeping in on his day off.

you develop new senses living alone.
like it or not, you’re talking to animals after a while,
cruising zoo cages for vacancy signs.
and sooner or later, your bedroom gets flooded
with a sappy post-natal umbilical feeling.

and now you lie there, waiting to be born again,
while the 3:00 train howls its way across the hillside below,
you hope for a landslide, a victory for nature
vs. a harshly nurtured public, yourself included, of course,
but hey...numbers are numbers.

if only once, you could really wake up underwater,
you’d probably drink the whole ocean for breakfast with joy
you’d spit out the story i’ve been waiting for,
and sing yourself to sleep again.

copper square revival

in a room temperature world
in a valley, in the sun,
we were destroyed & born & born again
w/ frenzied infatuation & golden good looks,

extracting the heavy metals from our bodies
takes patience & time & time again
we hurdle disappointments, we traverse
canyons of doubtful desire,
we champion silliness and good measure,

life between these mirrored walls
is complicated, all the fun we have sticks
to our ribs, a slow sedimentation,
a delightful march toward obesity,
enlightenment & optimal health,

we sing to our content in stillborn languages,
we walk through hotel lobbies, untouchable,
under faux-precious chandeliers, we brighten
the hallways and elevator shafts,
we grace the evenings like the whole damn thing
was built just for us,

two fit for a dream for one, admittedly,
but evident, to no objection, we carry on
on weekday evenings, in working fantasies,
while my heart begs for a padded cage,
& dances on airplanes & rental car rides,

all the way back home, over so much empty space,
to personal routines mapped out in slopes & pentagrams,
there are beautiful worlds, and then there are the spaces in between,
where shades of celestial splendor cast shadows over everything.
these are the spaces most worth falling into.

the world might change its wicked ways
on a clear, bright morning in November,
if the sea is calm & ready
and the satellites are perfectly aligned.

there is a heartbeat somewhere
underground, that defies lunar attraction
& the mechanics of wind; dependent not
on oil and foreign fingers, but action &
hunger & intuition.

there is a rage underwater that doesn’t
surprise me. there are expectations of
freedom that just might drown
in the real world.

in the skies above there are ghosts that
know everything. they abduct the best
futures to hold over our heads. in the heat
of the universe, blood runs thinner
than starlight. you’ll never see them falling,
but they will come crashing down.

death is a living, breathing dragon
for these old ladies & their purple jackets
who wear their hair like helmets
and polyester like body armor.

disposable hand sanitizer samples
won’t save you, if you’re threatened by
everything that isn’t you.

the earth is a burning, raging desert
expanding over time and space
that feeds itself on secrets
and young lovers’ words.

when you’re old, if you don’t get
attacked by lions, you get to eat
yourself from the inside out.

the television burns her heart hollow
with holographic campaigns &
subversive schemes vs. nature.

her mind suffers some phantom
discomforts. mornings are the
worst, when the streetlights
obscure the stars out there.

she glides aimlessly along
these angled sidewalks,
with god & youth on her side.
they’ll die for her if they have to,
with pills or ropes or rifles.

her telephone is unbreakable.
she’s a waiting fire for public
consumption. if she burns you
then you’re basically holy.
her fingers are comets
accelerating towards everywhere.

she can feel her options
like the sky falling. if she
holds her breath, the clocks
around here will break.

her mind orbits the city.
one day she will walk
straight to heaven
through the sea divided.

in another universe, there is
gravity between colors, and
another sun that shines in on itself.

galaxies that have never known mystery,
people that have never tasted beer

it’s all comets & rainbows over there,
and miles that keep their distance.

downtown here there is defiance
of the first order
of the worst kind,

where mystery is common sense
and leprechauns sleep beneath
abandoned semi-truck trailers.

it’s x-rays & knowledge over there
& everyone sleeps most nights.
although the music never stops
and inspiration gets to everyone.

here it’s all self-preservation & groceries.
fiery smiles & short skirts.

& it’s always raining,
even in yellow summers.
the shadows carry diseases
& the cold sun ignores your thoughts