For M.

A dark star touched the earth one night,
And somehow you were made.

It burdened you with fire and light,
While it went on to fade.

I've seen you on our sidewalks,
A one man cavalcade.

So pretty are your shadows,
So deadly is your shade.

Ghosts out after midnight,
Haunting Dairy Queen's parkade.

A union borne in shining eyes,
That nothing can degrade...

Alone in Doorless Igloo (Three Months and a Hundred Years are the Very Same Thing)

Making desperate love to space heaters
in yer lonely winters, smoking filters
you find on the street corners, and wandering
aimlessly for hours around your apartment
in search of half-finished sandwiches or
novellas, considering an opera career
as a respite from the overwhelming usefulness
of your daily tasks; the importance of hygiene,
the essentiality of consumption
in maintaining gdp. Growth;
there is growth in the plants and the power plants
and the swim trunks you left on the floor for too long.
What is the opposite of growth? Shrinkage?
Cold wet penis and a gym class group shower?
Repression? Memories of that gym class..
Like with dense, there's no appropriate antonym
as though even the diametrically opposed nature
of the English language
can't take itself seriously for all too long.
Death isn't the opposite of life, because your body
is there the whole time, and its always changing.
Sitting isn't the opposite of standing;
you do much of both, with no principalistic conflict.
Insanity isn't the opposite sanity,
just the logical progression of personality
as a consequence of the incessant scheduling
ten fifteen brush your teeth,
the development of what some people call a soul,
but they're idiots because it's no more than being a person
and you have to ask them what else they'd expect, an onslaught
of broader metaphysics- undoubtedly the creation of insanity,
a bipolar man making up things like good and evil-
as such entertaining and useless. To be human.
To cackle lustfully at the air conditioning unit come spring.
The brilliant undensity.

moving for history

paintings of buddha
drawings of god

i swore you did not believe
in departed angels
but i was wrong

so many more
could be like you
indifferent and moving

its understood
this distance
still growing

so you keep on turning
in any old direction

with each footprint
in time

substantial evidence
that
with nothing come something

so
i welcome history

Dark patches of hair

shivering in the breeze;
today is your camera
today watches longingly
today is reflected in a tepid glass of water.
What garbage wafts from the street
and into the open windows
is brushed away swiftly,
painlessly, into the absorbent surfaces
of a ghost dark room
at two in the afternoon;
tomorrow is bound to your headboard
tomorrow is begging you for more.

how perfectly god-damned delightful it all is to be sure

my destiny is to live
between hangovers and warm 'hellos'
and go from an angry sleep
in your brothers bed
to some time spent alone
which i capitalize on by doing the dishes in the nude
collecting as many spare socks as i can
and longing for the green lake,
and the time when we talked about it.

good grammar and your girlishness
wont save you today, or even tomorrow
even if the hole is shallow,
we'll still bury you
because i'm making friends for life
the kind that go out of their way
to save me,
and let the wind do the fucking you over.