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House on the Moon

The mind is too pink on the inside tonight.

Out of desperation, you turn to small words.

A spider in your home blushes and turns away.

You think if you agree with him, you’ll become friends

and crawl in and out of each other’s mouths.

You can’t sleep so you recite names of saints in alphabetical order.

You make up names for the ones you can’t remember.

You imagine an intruder which you befriend.

You leave a little more of yourself each time you leave.

Your stuff is accumulating. The stove says,

come here, I’ll kiss it and make it better.

The phone, both ear and mouth, talks to itself.

The pillow flatters itself. You’re getting so fat,

the fifth to last beer says. Your rug hasn’t shaved in days.

The houseplants are trying to get out the window.

The lights are tired of being on in case someone

doesn’t think you’re home. Your toothbrush flinches.

The clock winks, like you, and only you, get what it’s saying.

It’s saying it doesn’t know what the hell it’s saying.

The ashtray just shakes its head. Outside, your van is worried

it’s going to break down. It can’t sleep either. The leaves pretend

to look at their feet or talk to the leaves beside them.

They have something interesting to say about the moon,

and I mean, no one has ever said anythinginteresting about the moon.

reunion

When I saw Jenny for the first time in years I said, sometimes I feel so sad and neurotic that I could shit Woody Allen. Which I thought wasn’t an inappropriate introduction to reacquainting ourselves, but all she said was, I’m sorry to hear that. Which is not what she would have said if I had a time machine and went back to where she would say something immediately embarrassing and secret about herself, like, I use to have sexual fantasies in church about Jesus H. Christ, instead of just letting me stand there, ashamed. The entire conversation was filled with my shame. I kept trying. I said, last night I ate an entire bag of pizza rolls and peanut butter cups while watching a Blood Sport marathon on TNT. But she never reciprocated, never once leveled my self-pity with a story about crying over a haircut. She just stood there, sympathizing in the laziest way possible. And that made me terribly sad. Not because she didn’t make me feel better, but because over the years, something taught my loosed lipped ship sinking Jenny, that stoicism was better. Not even that, but there was something wrong with being aggressively ear-nest. Then it occurred to me that she was never aggressively earnest, but nervous, and was no longer nervous. She used to say those things to me like a twitch, like she was holding up a trash can lid to deflect my awkwardness. And in that moment I was pleased to ever be a part of her life. Perhaps I’m even responsible for her new found confidence and patience. And when she went to leave, I wanted her to stay, but she left, like a ghost caught a tooth on her sleeve. And suddenly I was every sad little man who stands in a field at one point in his life, thinking, is it possible that God created all of this?

#pizza rolls #blood sport #god #ghosts #jenny #neurotic

o lord are you in need(sept.)

when i call(x2) I was sure I told you care quite so much for got in at 1:00 P. M. and lie said I wouldn’t to write me there I didn’t know that fear I said,letters better, my darling. me into a high, not the morbid kind in others to live

#september #fear #letters #found #morbid

i like you more than jail

i like you more than jail or handcuffs, or the way sioux city smells, or the way sioux city smells waking up in a basement of cigarette smoke, but i always find a way back to you. and the way that your city...

#sioux city #iowa #cigarettes #handcuffs #jail

no reason

wood-frame dreams jointed against a cauliflower-scented nightmare wilderness you’ll probably say the exact same thing, while waiting for the next elevator.

rest stop outside Las Vegas

everyone is sinking, into the bottomless with their own breath. sipping or flailing their limbs and flesh refreshment of living. In which ever ocean, the body’s shark bite or whale’s buoyant calmness, a wave of thought to be drank or dammed between coasts that can repress no more. The Currents of lives of those we cannot know. But try to rest in the depths, a new timbre of heart. On the horizon outside Los Angeles, the smog swells with a shade of gold to swallow beside the commode. dug up with rushed destiny for decor on the mantle made of redwoods. The frost on the sidewalks will throw you without steady footing or if you don’t listen for the avalanche, falling to the bottom of the stomach, forgetting to breath, kneeling in front of the bowl that works faster than a liver.

ichabod crane

beware three a.m. phone calls cold-blooded baby monitors in your mailbox can’t let you sleep -- sleep -- sleep dream well, because i can’t lower many more

untitled

come down fugb, down to the ground where all of our obvious secrets lie tied to knuckles of pets that died when we were children. there’s little reason to bring them up because a stranger is feeding a pigeon outside the bar where two old friends that have not spoken in three years are having a drink tomorrow. so sew up that sock and wear it out again, down the sidewalks and alleys, in front of the bathroom mirror. no one asks for permission when starving or says ‘i love you’ without implying both’s utility to leave. three years or forever, or what you had for lunch twelve days ago.

on Halloween

i got upright, naked, and true, and found out the full-length mirror in my room comes up to my eyebrows took another look in the mirror, and remembered things i used to do in front of my bathroom mirror with ghosts i used to know, who are now just friends with the weatherman, on the internet. counting blemishes in the mirror and contemplating houston’s tremendous patience, the big one falls and six ragged-edge bruises like eastern Slav states set the on-high city reverb(((erating with mineshaft pitch blue reminders again&again&

clippings

i have given up on greeting cards, my timing was always wrong. it was new year’s yesterday, tomorrow, and today instead there will be ‘lost pet’ clippings scattered across the kitchen table. long winding walks home yelling “c’mon boy,” “here girl” conversations will carry a sense of urgency, house arrests will turn into search parties, pet owners will rise to the occasion. though, winter would have to be given up.

#zine #fargo-moorhead #red river valley #literary #poetry

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