my reasons

and i thought it was the last poem i would write for you. fuck you for
forcing these words out of my mouth like you’re standing on my chest.
you see this afternoon i have been playing with maths playing with me
and the irreversible conclusion is that i wish you were cold hard dead.
let me cast the blame for desertion on you though i am the deserter.
let you assume the mantle of weakness though of course i was weak.
let you sink slowly into the ground to decay there with your halflife
measured in hours not the years it’s been since we died cold and hard.

and i thought we would last. i really did back when we were fighting
everyone and everything for it instead of crumbling from the inside.
prostitute yourself for the feeling of belonging to something anything.
i know you are doing this because you so enjoyed doing this to me:
pulling me to the edge and beyond only to take on your animal self
and push me away again for some elusive freedom. fuck you for
making it easy to justify in your absence and your petulant tantric
penduluming allegiances and your insane devotion to upper hands
and your constant undecided vacillation between many poles
and how you’d toss yourself at any man who’d so much as look.

and you thought it was the last poem i’d write you. well fuck you.
go engorge yourself on another’s affections. i don’t really mind
finally being warm and full of blood and not dreading your return.

untitled

give me an opportunity.
i’ll punch you in the face,
i swear to it. and i won’t feel bad
to watch blood splatter against
the brick behind you, and I won’t
regret how my wrist burns and aches
for a week or two.

how has no one ever called you
a fucking backstabbing son of a bitch?
i’ll do it. i’ll do it and i’ll feel the crack
of my knuckles on your jawbone.
idiot. i’ll be the man who knocks the boy
the fuck out of you.

fathers

why don’t i remember more of my dad?
maybe it’s because he’s a builder
and when i think back we were
always making things better.

so we thought. and now here i am
years later, double scotch straight up
the chimney and into the cold night sky
thinking about dad. why did mum
ever marry the guy. how did they
meet and what was the catalyst.

am i him? not much. he doesn’t take scotch.
he hates the cubans i bought the other day.
he swears i’ll have lung cancer
or tongue cancer but fuck cancer.
i’ll sleep when i’m dead and my body will decay
and i’ll be feeding someone’s ambitious crops.
we all die when it’s right and i intend
to die when it’s right for me.

am i him? not much. maybe.
we are both builders, though i’ve never
quite had his knack for picking up a saw
and making the two by four longer.
a little. see how i’m taking you,
ripping you apart, and putting you
back together? he’s never
quite had my knack for making friends
and understanding how people work.

and so it is that i’m sitting on a barstool
with a pen between my fingers,
a napkin wedged under my elbow
thinking about my father, your father,
the fathers of the world, and how we
are not much like them,
no, not at all.

innocence

i don’t think i told her much truth.
that is, i don’t think she wanted to know.
honestly, she was innocent
and slow to learn things
about the world.

i remember this one time she
suprised me on the elevator:
the doors shifted open and there she was
like some sort of just-cleaned
animals, straight from the zoo.
the wild in my apartment untamed,
so i took her out for coffee
and we chatted about art
theory and what the fuck were
those impressionist smoking.

when i kissed her goodnight
did she feel my divided loyalties?
i don’t think so, but she should have.
she was so innocent
and so slow to learn things
about me.

i recall after she left thinking how
maybe i did love her after all.
but i’ve never been able to
stick with any one thing:
my waywardness has lost me
many decent pets.

even now i divide my time between
loving her and hating her.
she was a good lover,
almost always faithful.
honestly. but we were both
so innocent and slow
to learn things about eachother

my jordan

i am constantly measuring her against your small things:
for instance how you whispered softly when we fucked.
she doesn’t whisper. ever. but hell i was used to you
constantly trying desparately to tell me anything at all.

you were not slim confidant beautiful cocky and fuckall.
sometimes i still expect to see you timid in new situations
but instead she is there to prove you opposing forces.

last night i forgot you turned my head and said her name
as she growled mine back into my ear. fiercly. grinning.
jordan i love you. tom i love you. till morning almost.
it was high noon before i remembered how you whispered.

you were not her but dammit i was used to your body.
i am still discovering places with my hands. with my lips.
she is still something of a mystery. she is still exciting.

but i am constantly measuring idiosyncracies your and hers.
i tell her this and she doesn’t mind. she knows i loved you
but she knows i love her and that one day i will say that
godammit i am used to you jordan. you’re my favorite shoes.
you come here. let’s fuck up the morning good and proper.

her fall

tonight she whispered into my ear how I made her feel like falling
like she was dropping from the side of a building to the sidewalk.
I am not certain what she meant but then her hot breath against
my neck erased everything. all my footholds disappeared then
and I was falling too. falling. hoping this is what she meant.

her finish line

i’ll be helping you till the day i die and you’ll never run out of problems.
that itself is the problem. i find myself more enchanted day by minute.
that we’re peas in pods makes it harder. you could be balm. could be.

i’ll be choking back my feelings like whiskey: how you make me spin
like a top. i am dizzy with anticipation of the new light you’ll cast.
that we’re likewise opposites makes it harder. i’d take you. i would.

i’ll be telling you i have nothing to give till you realize i’m everything
and its shoulder: how i don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks
except what you think. how i could carry you past. past the finish line.

her reverse angelic

she is beautiful in so many ways. tonight i have forgotten the words
but yesterday they were on the tip of my tongue at the tip of her ear.
she is slight but not easily broken: almost gone but so very there.
she is eyes painted black standing bedside in holy reverse angelic.

she is beautiful in so many ways. i’d tell you if the spell would last
but i’m afraid if i use her name too often she will crumble to dust.
she is slight but not softspoken: her words are teeth to shoulders.
she is a psalm unlike any i have seen written on my bedpost.

she is beautiful in so many ways. i’ll repeat that lest i forget her
in the rush and thunder of a brand new weekday dawning fast.
she is slight but difficult to open: folded origami this way and that.
she is bedshaped whispering scripture tip of tongue to tip of ear.