everything inside is made of stone

saying it is easy.
i map out a year from
intention , my closed self
a bouquet of so many reasons to go.

i saw you on a friday my love
pressed between hunger and night
wearing familiar pieces of past
fingers flicking the space between
we occupied
a glass of beer, intermittent pulls from another cigarette.

i trace my memory over you, the grey shape you are
flawless i look for ways to forget
to pick your dark edges with fingernails
crisp cover of healed

i am
in your hands, a fresh wound at the ready.
show me how
to peel away permanent.

negativity

cursed, she said. her palm open near my chin
her eyes on me groping
the grey bruised pear seated in her pink satin window.

all ears for the cause
i placed my two hundred dollars to the right of her fingertips
yes i said, nodding, the tears warm
a body living
with two first fingers i hear myself pointing

a curse, i nod
my mouth pressing the blame around it
quick
like twenty minutes twice a week
i wear my willing , my take me
topstitched to gold ribbon on my hip

like three rings of
everything gone wrong.

brilliant

a small grey stone in a pond, i watch a year

stretch itself closed, without heavy sighs

       nor early morning

            intoxications as delusion.

instead, i

turn to my green ghost self

collecting smoke in her familiar way

grasping the pen to resolve

with both hands.

 

good evening winter rain , i am a furnace

cup your hand around the lightswitch
pulling down on the sound

my voice sings out

trembling black lines from
the cold spot i try to fill
beneath your window.

i shuffle to

build something
tall     a smokestack of homes, a future

like this but big , arms leaping towards the
door , the window is not very far

from the front porch stuffy with cigarettes
,  you catch me with sameness
staring up from the corner to see you ,  bright
round looking
i felt you before you handed me your name
i hear myself
our pants piled together on the floor.

december already
still everything soon.

some things , made soon

audre lorde. love.

 if i could be anything.

t.

shame on a thursday

tonight, hungry past dinner time, i put on shoes. slip
down the street mid rain. chana masala plus one plain naan equals
my favorite 7 dollar dinner, i'll eat it quietly, shoulder slouched seated by the bed.

outside,  an elderly black man points his red and white cane in the direction of the curb.
can i help you cross i'm asking my ready lent  hand quick on his wintered sleeve
   i am pleasant and
he asks for help,  his left palm capsizing towards me.
in this moment my definitions find me limited plus quick shame in the cheeks equals
3 quarters and a dime, he takes me arm.

this is us, i say the light changing
and together we walk like
together we have somewhere to go.

across, i find another dollar from my pocket.
it is raining and my paper bag is filled with warm bread and sour guilt.
you're at the corner of jones at o' farrell i say loudly, our hands squeezing apart.
i continue up the hill quickly, like every good i've ever meant lurks ignorance behind.