november twenty-ninth time

I am glad that goosebumps are not made of real geese. Real geese have violent tempers.

november twenty-eighth time

he asks what four-letter
words he should not say.

                loss.

home.
oath.
hope.

mine.
live.

(jinx)

       love--

i cannot answer; my lips
are cracked. they grew swollen
with these grand unspoken
swears, and burst apart

november twenty-seventh time

bodies used to be temples. now
there is the white picket fence
of the rib cage, the golden tint
exterior of tan, the sculpted
idol of arm, leg, hip. the wrinkles
smoothed out like leaves
swept off of the porch. i find myself
lost in a suburb of carefully
mowed lawns (the hair cut just so),
the mailboxes all black and white
(the fingernails with their delicate
tips / flags hailing luxury forward),
and in this Levittown of faces
I am unsure of where the public
space ends and the private begins.

november twenty-sixth time

Is climbing onto roofs becoming less common, or am I just getting old?

Should I have this question about more things?

There is a poem in there, somewhere.

november twenty-fifth time

body as a looking-glass carafe,
body as a sack of nervous doves,
body as dream upon dream holding
hands; as scaffolding, as light

november twenty-fourth time

i call burning leaves
in fireplaces the reverse
butterfly: watch carefully,
the vibrant colors of the
newly shed leaf dull
to brown; it shrivels
into itself, curling
and rolling toward
the central vein
until it can be hung
from its stem and look
tranquil as a fresh
chrysalis: unborn.

november twenty-third time

building a sanctuary for ghosts

i would like my apartment to become
a necropolis that dances and sighs
like lace curtains caught in the wind:
the stories of the dead all brazen
and hymnful shadows kissing
the skin of my sunlit corridors.

november twenty-second time

I am drawing a bath to lure the monsters to drink.
I am stacking a pile of candy bars under the bed.

The impressive sack of money is on the closet floor
to the left of the rare vintage boots and the right
of the complete stamp collection. I am begging. I am
leaving the front, back, and side doors unlocked.

I am building a rope made of blankets, I am leaving
the hallway light off. I am blinking         often, I am
quiet and exposed, I am waiting naively: one ear
pressed to wall and another to pillow.

I need reminding--the hard way--of how
to be afraid of the dark. Of the value
and convenience of being alive.

November twenty-first time

I think of how afraid I am
of dying. How I am
remarkably interested,
notably enthusiastic,
and utterly apprehensive.

It is like the top of a roller coaster,
or like blinking slowly in the dark.

November twentieth time

If I admit to not feeling like writing anything right now, I have this notion that a unicorn will melt or that a fairy will combust or something to that effect.

november nineteenth time

being so pragmatic and so idealistic at the same time will be the end of us.

november eighteenth time

i want to give you my faults;
i am a map of a rough place.

i want to show you where
not to go. the edges of
what hands can build.

warn you of an empire that was.

november seventeenth time

wrap two sets of fingers
together like licking
the cusp of chiaroscuro
animal. bleed into
focus. kiss of foreheads
pressing gently together.
bending the scars
to form a shape.
the violence of intimacy;
this sinewy kind
of unfolding.

november sixteenth time

i'm not sure how i would replace the capacity
to build pillow forts as a nomad.

(but it does seem like an important thing to do.)

november fifteenth time

there is a brick wall in georgetown where someone has spray painted the words

"love is"

and in the space below it, people always seem to be painting over one another--
this week it says "light" and last week it said something else--
and next week it will say something else. and it will all be true, and art, and
the fact that this happens may be my favorite thing about the world.

november fourteenth time

a prayer that I make sometimes:

For a cupid to huddle at her side
and take echoparts of her bones
for safekeeping.

To translate her shade
and have its poetries tattooed
to the inside of my lip.

To dream together.

november thirteenth time

when you get older, there are more spices
and fewer balloons.
more comforters, and fewer forts.
more concerts, and fewer bees.

but i am uncertain as to whether
there are more maps, or fewer maps.
more decorations, or fewer decorations.

more kisses, or fewer kisses.

november twelfth time

It is difficult to breathe here.
There is enough starch on these
button-ups to intoxicate a slew
of minors--starching shirts:
graffiti for white collars.

The traffic bows and weaves
like a terrific ivy vine
not sensitive to wind.

I wake up earlier than God.

Something quivers by
the paper shredder. An old
young self that nods and wearies
and frets. Too afraid to speak.

My prison is full of doors.

november eleventh time

in credible


that we do not choose our own names.

November tenth time

i do not understand the birthday wish to fly.
rarely do I see people skipping, or prancing, or lollygagging

there are plenty of neglected verbs sitting on the sidelines
of our day-to-day routines--just waiting to be picked--

November ninth time

on many large trees there are
these certain strawthin
spindlethick branches
that grow straight up into the sun's
terrible and brilliant nose.

And yet, I somehow find myself
believing that the forest should be
reaching out to me--
that to grow truant
from the trunk (which i can
touch and tear with both hands)
is obscene and strange.

all of the other limbs feel
that my inner light is enough:
enough to grow a fairy in,
some ladybugs,
and other natural predators.
(I feel it.)

but not these young branches
with such vigor; such hopeless ambition.

november eighth time

trapped in the jagged fingernail of greatness--
that clings and cuts and waits to be trimmed to a size
approachable for handshakes with acquaintances
and sometimes back rubs
and often playing the guitar.

november seventh time

i often think of moving things.
of picking them up. of opening
them, of closing them,
of catching them. but rarely
of how i am touching them
each and every time--of their
textures and pores--of their delicate
bodies. this is a fantastic travesty,
and probably how humans
are made and unmade.

november sixth time

I want to bottle the essence of monsters
and sprinkle it onto my soup at dinner.

I want to grind the fangs of vampires
into a delicate pulp that I can distribute
into all hand sanitizers.

When I was small, I used to pray for the worst
because I wanted to know that I had actually
felt it. That I was justified
in feeling the way that everyone feels.
It didn't occur to me how pointless
that was. That I would never know
if the prayer had been answered.

november 5th time

the light dims from her eyes like flipping through a book of paint swatches.
there is not really choice. she is grasping at pangs of the heart as they amble
past slowly; presenting themselves as not limited, but luxurious--
extensive / fathomless /
exhaustive.

november fourth time

This is the way that vodka feels as all of the flavor is filtered out of it.

november third time

after halloween,
each jack-o-lantern deflates.

this is remarkably similar
to the human aging process:

first the gray spots, and then
the crows' feet, and then the lips sag
downward like abandoned
hammocks in winter.

november second time

wind nestling into its satisfied nooks like
the hum of a familiar song in the throat

november first time

when i touch you, i imagine drawing intricate pictures
in the velvet cushions of grand auditoriums.