sometimes we meet like old lovers

   

sometimes at a hidden beach
at lake calhoun

where a man in a brown speedo
piles up rocks

at the edge of the lake

and splashes water on them
so they glisten

in the late afternoon sun

we sit on our towels
drying off

wiping the sand from our feet

the piles of rocks get bigger
and all we agree on

is that it is getting darker
sooner every day.

letter to hannah on valentine's day

   

dogs

bury

bones

people

bury

dogs

people

bury

people

but

dogs

just

bury

bones  

amerslan

- for rebecca bremner

as you make each sign

birds of human flesh

fly from the end of your wrist.

they flutter inside our ears

telling us

that as we fly

our wings become unbroken.

tightly

   

you grow tired of the plain white walls

you grow tired of the pale flesh on your body

you grow tired of the still grey calm that is your bed

you cover your walls in streaks of crimson

you paint your skin the color of pregnant clouds

you draw arrows on your bedsheets

you stand in the middle of it all

watching the color peel away

from the walls dripping

from your skin falling

off the edges of your mattress

you stand there

staring at the

brightly colored floor

and you feel a yawn

somewhere deep inside

you hold it there and go on with your life.  

spin

   

i'm downstairs in the laundry room
waiting for the washer to stop

so i can put my darks in the dryer and
start my whites in the washer

and i'm listening to the washer

going thru its final spin

and it's making these noises

as it spins and i feel the rhythm

of the noises and i find myself
moving with them and i'm dancing
around to the beat of the washer

lost in the sounds of this metal box
with my darks inside shaking quietly

on the basement floor when my neighbor
walks in with a basket of dirty clothes

and i stop dancing and look at him and he
just stands there holding his

dirty clothes staring at me and the
washer clicks off and my

clothes slowly stop spinning
slowing until they are stopped

stuck up against the insides of the machine

i walk out of the laundry room

out of the basement and out of the
apartment building into the street
moving slowly away from my neighbor

away from my darks and away from my whites.

thirst

   

he wakes up

in the middle of the night
and gets out of bed

to get a glass of milk

he stumbles into the kitchen
and opens the refrigerator
and as he is reaching

for the milk

he sees his picture

on the side of the carton
and the caption

that says he is missing
and has been missing
for years

he takes the milk
from the refrigerator
opens the spout

puts it to his mouth
and tilts it back
until the last drop
has drained down
his throat

he puts the empty carton
back in the refrigerator
and goes back to bed

he dreams that he

is at the supermarket
pushing through a
crowd of people
around the dairy case

he dreams that he has
made it to the front

of the crowd

and he is looking

at all the milk cartons
looking at all of the
pictures on their sides

he dreams that
he has found one
with a picture of
someone else

someone else
who is missing
just like

him. 

you can stand outside

they say you can never go home
but you can find a place

just like it

a house with all the lights
turned off

a faint blue glow
of a television

seeping through the curtains
no sound

nobody watching it

angled light from the
open refrigerator door

sprawled across the kitchen floor
but no food

nobody standing in front if it
looking inside

an alarm clock
beeping in a bedroom
on the second floor
for years

without waking anything up

they say you can never go home
when you leave

you walk down the driveway
that reaches

out towards the street

like a twisted arthritic finger

third person

   

she decides she should be somewhere else

driving a different car than the one

she is in with him

so she pulls over to the

side of the road and stops

takes the keys from the ignition

gets out and walks away down the road

walking in the direction the car was going

but leaving it behind

as if she knows there is another car

somewhere up ahead

and her keys will fit into its locks

and start its engine

just like they have opened and started

everyone so far

and the man in the car

who was sitting there alone

in himself with her

is now just there alone

the car is empty of the hundreds of people

that she had brought along with her

the crowd of herself

that was never the same

they are all walking down the road

with her swinging her keys

singing softly to themselves

and the man in the car

who was with her in the car

doesn't understand what she is doing

he doesn't know where he is

he gets out of the car

and looks down the road after her

trying to see how small

and far away she has become

but the sun is fading

the end of the road

is in the pocket of one of the women

that is walking away

and the blueness of the sky is fading

as if there were somebody

at the other end

dragging it along behind them.

next day air

i got tired of her

so i put her in a box

but it wasn't large enough
so part of her stuck out
and when i mailed it off

to someone who didn't exist

at an address that wasn't there
they had to cut her arm off

at the post office

they tried to deliver her
but they couldn't

and the box ended up
back at my door

with stamps on it

that say they did

all they could but in the end
i was wrong

now i have this box

sitting here on my porch
leaking onto the floorboards
and i'm thinking maybe

i did miss her a little

maybe i was wrong

and she is there inside the box
but i can't tell

if she's still alive
and if she is

should i open the box
take her inside

and try to explain

the situation.

turning on the dark

the refrigerator turns off its light when the door
is opened and the man standing in front of it is
asking is there anything to drink in here can't
see anything, just a solid black square inside a
cold gently humming box, and when the door
shuts the light turns back on, but the man can't
ever know that, he sits there listening to it hum
waiting into the night thinking it will grow
dark enough to see a thin line of light around
the edges of the door, as if the sun were a giant
glowing cube of ice held in someone's hands
and he was there below it, his mouth open and
dry, waiting for it to melt. 

what happens

  

i want to know what happens to you how you lose your
love how you see that it was never there that you saw it
but now you can't remember how does it happen does it
slide thru you without you ever knowing that you were
holding something is it like a moth that you think you are

holding never opening your hands because it would not

be there because it was never there you just wanted to 

see it so badly that your wanting became the flicker of 

wings in front of your face crushed into nothing by

your sweaty fingers

where does it go does it leave you when it is still there
does it leave you gasping for air in a tangle of sweaty
sheets does it keep you up late at night asking questions
why is the sky black why do you poke holes in it with
your tongue does it hurt does it wake you up with cold
hands on your back does it make breakfast for itself and
watch your empty plate your hungry eyes with no
expression on its face

or is it like a taxi with its hazard lights flashing pulled
over in front of your apartment meter running driver
humming to himself quietly watching the money well 

up like blood in a tightly clenched fist 

the movie

- for kate cell

she arrives before anyone else
and sits in the first row

and when it's over

and the credits come on
she runs up to the screen
and points to her name
and turns to the audience
saying

this is me

here i am

and she moves her finger
to follow her name

as it moves upwards

and nobody is left

in the theater

except for this woman
rising slowly into the air
with her name. 

woman at the sink

she is looking down the drain
for silverware

and part of her says it's ok
there is nothing down there
and moves one of her arms
for the disposal switch

but another part

makes her other arm

reach into the drain

telling her there

look

it's a flash of stainless steel
it's the end of your
complete eight person

forty piece set of dinnerware

she reaches into the drain
just as she hits the switch
and she feels the sharp wind
from the blades

this other part saying get it
telling her it's a spoon

it's a fork

or maybe it's a knife.

screaming like winds do

you took me

and stretched me

so flat and thin that i became
the dirt you walked on

and never noticed who it was
and when you came

to where i ended

you stepped off the edge
and i woke up

in total darkness

in an unfamiliar house

a house without windows

a house with cold cement floors
and a wind

that blows around inside
but never touches anything
i am that house

i am the cold hard floor
i am those boards

where there should be windows
and i am the wind

inside that house

blowing from one empty room
into another.

she draws herself at night

  

when she comes to the edges of the paper

she sets it up against the dresser and looks at it
she rubs her hands on her thighs

leaves streaks and smudges of the colors
that she is

but she is gone

she is the impression of who she is tonight

the woman in the picture is another woman
just like her

another woman that she might tell someone is herself
if she felt like it

another woman she might say she has never met
if she doesn't

it is a woman holding herself in her arms
rocking herself back and forth

she is sitting on a cloud

and she can't tell if this cloud

that she is holding and rocking herself on
is in the sky

or in the empty blue space between her hands
and that is why she is holding herself

that is why she is rocking back and forth

who is that she thinks

in that other place on a cloud
who is that and then she is back

she is back with her hands wiping themselves clean
on her thighs

and her legs are covered with streaks
of the different colors that she is
yellows pushed into blues reds forced
into greens whites with blacks

the colors blended over and over again

until it all becomes the same sort of lumpy grey
not dark not light but somewhere among

the shades of grey she finds

between when she falls asleep and the lightness
where she wakes up

somewhere between here and there
in a room filled with smoke

that stings her eyes and fills her hair
and she thinks that she is on fire

thinking to herself about how if she could find the door
she would run outside

and a cloud would be waiting for her there
a cloud filled with rain

waiting to put out the flames

she feels burning all over her body.

how big she is against the sky

   

she is trying

to take a picture
of her

standing on this platform
that is like a stage

set up in the middle

of a flat stretch of dirt

she moves back

from the camera to try
to fit it all in the picture
but she can't tell

if it fits

because when she looks
she isn't in it

and that isn't the picture
she is trying

to take

she takes another step
backwards

and she is off the edge
falling towards the

flat stretch of dirt below

she wishes she could
take a picture of it

a picture of herself falling
silhouetted against the sky

she wants it to look at

to see just how far

she has to fall

this forest

i made this
forest
one night
and then i
forgot
about it
and left it
on its own
and when i
came back
i saw that
the trees
had all grown
sideways
and their
branches were

dragging
on the ground
like fingers
searching
for spare
change
in the bottom
of an empty
pocket.

i'm getting older

   

i can tell
because

when i go to bed

i don't think about
men with knives
coming into my room
to kill me

now what i imagine
when i'm trying

to fall asleep

are women

who climb into my bed
with me

women who run
sharpened fingernails
across my back
women who cut me
wide open

and kiss me

the moment before
i die

i imagine women
who say

i have done something
terrible to them

they tell me

they know what i think
when i see them
walking in front of

my house

they keep me up late
talking to me

in whispers

just loud enough

so that i can pick out
the important phrases
words like who do you
think you are

doing this to me

words like i know

who you are.

sharpening the knives

- for geb

as you get
closer to
someone
there is a
point where
you come
out on the
other side
of them
holding

a grocery bag
in your hands

when you get
home you

look inside
wondering what
you are doing
with all this
food you

don't remember
buying

but there

it is

sitting on
the kitchen
floor

and you

sitting there
next to it
trying to
figure out
what to make
for dinner

and how many
places

to set at

the table. 

opening like a mouth

   

who were those rocks you threw
into the water he asks what were
their names she says nobody and
he is silent he wants to tell her
that he threw a rock named
nobody in the river a few days
ago but it's not the same she
knows a different nobody she has
a different pile of rocks and none
of the names matter any more just
the perfect arc the entry the light
of the moon the path it makes on
the water reaching out to meet
her as she falls.

louder every time

  

I.            he talks to her when he is naked when she isn't
               there, tells her dangerous fast-moving bloody
               things when she isn't there to hear them but
               when she is there she feels the weight of the
               room the scent of his blood and him slowly
               taking off her clothes, she wants to know she
               says she wants to find what is written on his
               skin, she spends the night stretching it biting it
               tearing pieces off trying to figure out what it
               says

II.          he talks to her on the phone when she is in bed
               with him having sex with him talking on the
               phone with him like he is someone else she is
               someone else and he is doing the same thing,
               and when they're done he puts his receiver
               back in its cradle and looks over at her lying
               there, still on the phone asking over and over
               again are you still there

III.        he talks to her about their relationship as if it
               were a room, him walking in seeing her there
               sitting on the bed doing a crossword, as if they
               could put the windows wherever they wanted,
               four letters she says hole he says room he says,
               as if they were lying together in bed the puzzle
               finished and thrown away, the door swinging
               open and shut in the wind.

driving

                     

a man is coming back from a trip with his family.
he is driving the family car down the highway.
he pulls the car over to the side of the highway
and stops. he gets out of the car and tells his
family to go on without him. his family doesn't
understand. the baby is crying. the dog is
barking. his son is yelling at him. his daughter
is screaming at him. his wife is begging him to
get back into the car. the man runs away from
the car. he runs into a field by the side of the
highway. he runs until all he can hear are his
tired footsteps and his ragged breath. he lies
down in the grass. he says oh my god, i am so
alone. he gets up and walks back to the highway.
he looks at the tire tracks on the side of the road
and wonders if he can ever go home.

ashtray

   

they both know it's a joke the
skin how he can't forget it the it's
all been said before he can't
remember it her crawling out
from underneath him the soft
morning footsteps trying not to
wake him her dressing quietly
sitting at the kitchen table
drinking coffee smoking until he
realizes she is gone gets up
wanders into the kitchen stops
short when he sees her asks who
are you and laughs to himself
walks into the bathroom washes
her from every corner of his
body. 

and it keeps coming back

   

to this thought

that there is a phrase

maybe only two or three words

that he needs to say to her

like some magic spell

or a picture she needs to see

a scene showing how easy things are

so he sits down

and writes out words that might work

draws pictures of scenes

that might be what she needs

he works until his hands give up

until they just stop

and refuse to do anything

but hold each other

and he is left holding his hands

in the middle of this pile of paper

this pile of words and pictures

of people reaching into the air

and looking for places where they

cannot hide where they think

they are flying and only fall

w hen they are dreaming

and the pieces of paper are the wings

on their bodies

and they fly from the top of the pile

until they are cleared away

from the table and floor

they fly in the room

like a million sighs moving

over each other in waves

each one trying

to be first in line

trying to be the first one

to say just how it is

they flutter at the windows

as if they can see a light

somewhere on the other side of the world

as if it is crying for them

to come to where it is

these are the kinds of creatures

that live only one night

the kind of creatures you never see alive

you hear them when you dream

you find them in the morning

dried up in a small pile

on the floor beneath the window.

and it comes to him

   

that every time he is interrupted by
her phone calls her showing up at
his door by her calling his name
outside his window at night that she
is making him stop what he is
writing saying that part there is
good wait until i come again
interrupt you again keep that line
put it after the rest and when the
interruptions are over put them
together in order and call it
something like just a second or
can't you wait or answering the door
the phone the window the mouth on
the end of your body always wanting
more and i'll be behind you reading
over your shoulder trying not to
touch you.