You told me that some birds have hollow bones-
for flying, you said,
to keep weight down.
I understood. I wonder
why we act
as surely as spinning tops,
only knowing movement
and falling?
I wonder why my spirit feels so empty,
why the world seems so heavy?
Perhaps this emptiness is only
a promise that, some day,
I will soar.

Let me go, let me go, let me go now
I am young and growing older,
deaf and dumb and
my heart is ever colder
and the night is dark, and deepening,
so let me go, let me go, let me
burn through this town.
Let the fire reach the heavens,
Don’t you dare touch that dial-
let the heat warm your faces,
let the flames lick your smile
let me burn it all down.
I am the ember and the flicker,
the roar and the smoke,
I will consume all I can and
beat the dark away,
and when you see what the night was covering-
You will hurt for the darkness,
you will yearn for night,
and pray.

You asked me why?
I didn’t know
some things we can’t answer even just for show,
I am a dumb
lizard
flicking out my tongue
trying to find… something.
You looked at me,
I couldn’t stand it,
tore out of that apartment like a red-handed bandit,
and no matter what the clocks on the wall
are screaming
I can feel it in my hands,
there’s no time remaining,
I am a dumb
lizard
hiding in the rotting leaves,
hoping you pass me by.

Sleep will heal all ills,
but first, wake up, feel the roil
of your guts. Go back to sleep,
let the hours slip under the door gap.
Wake back up-
still a rage inside you,
a cold smooth pebble, a sonic-blast whine,
something stirring, something-
rising.
Call your boss, your boss’s boss,
and vomit all over your nice khakis.
Sleep will heal all ills.
How hollow are your bones, your
arms unable to raise in the slightest?
And why is this tile floor so comforting?
Ah, sleep,
sleep will heal all ills.

I am drunk on cheap brandy
and thinking expensive thoughts,
sweet feelings fed on bitters,
bad people, bad spirits, bad
times ahead.
I am drunk on expensive thoughts
of cheap people,
I am unsure where I am and
what I am doing, and I
do not know if any of this
is worth harvesting,
distilling,
or drinking.

The words do not flow, they stick and they clot
as thick as the noodles burnt into the pot
and writing, at times, is like cleaning up cookware,
you let the plot soak, might be a fine book there,
just scrub off the noodles, the grammar, the themes,
and – oh no – oh no, it doesn’t mean what it means.

There will be no phoenix ascending from these ashes,
that salted earth, these bitter barrens.
Bad beginnings and worse ends remain here:
the earth still stained with quenched fire,
founding stones haphazardly haunt the plot.
The fieldhands say no weeds will grow there,
the truckers look askance and chew their coffee a bit,
a lot of stories, yes, tall tales and short ones, too,
and none of them quite completely fit.

The fawns move in and soon they’ve got their antlers,
the stain’s corners crumble with the seasons,
they said that nothing would ever grow there,
and again, and again, and again,
they’re speaking lies.