The ramblings of the loved.

I sometimes pray

That my mother and father

Stop believing in me.

I feel taken by the privilege

Of their love.

The shaky scribbles of their hands

Etched in the small of my back,

My shins healed in scabs

From fences they did everything

Everything

Each thing they could

To get me over.

Sometimes I like to pretend

That my "I Love You's"

Are received with the intensity

I feel them with.

But I know they are not

Because nobody has yet responded

With, "Ouch.

What the hell did you do that for?"

Nobody has broken into tears

And so I know

It has only ever been

A sentimental trust.

And I can accept that,

But I don't want to.

On occasion I wish

That the children of this world

Were taught

That beauty is not the thing admired

But the admiration.

That flowers and perfect bodies

Are only created out of necessity,

While the sneaky moment silent

In trusting these things

To be filled with the beauty

They demand,

This moment is where holy begins.

Once or twice I have demanded truth

But truth is like puce;

There are so few people it looks good on

So I like to take funny pictures of truth

I like to discuss it when I am drunk

And pretend I will ever believe it.

Teach a man

And I have taken to filling

Your bedside table

With matchboxes.

I have filled them with my memories.

Wait for you to strike the strip.

In your sleep,

You wield a flint-tipped sword

In the likeness of a future.

Your horse is unmasked.

There were self-proclaimed

Heroes before you;

Each with his own voice of truth.

They each played siren songs

And handed me pounds of fish.

The ignobility of these men

Was shell-shocked

And filled with practice.

You walk comfortably

On feet you own.

Wearing only the t-shirt

We one-quarter stole.

Cast your shield aside,

Strike upward and pull down

Ignite the piles of hushed tears

And mistaken promises.

The night of bitter coldness

And its draft.

Let us set the night on fire

Let us be baptized

In the sea of flame.

Cardinal Direction

And you begin to fill your mouth with birds

Hoping to pick their faults through your teeth

They do not beg

You do not speak beak

If your mother taught you better than this

She is now forcing rice fistfulls down her throat

If you beg her

She will swoon

Do you remember her perch from some morning?

You have forgotten how to take her to the sun...

Your fingers are feathered

Your wings are clipped

&

When did your pockets

Begin their emptiness of fire?

I like to think

You were taken with the ocean

But my arms are lined with clues

That it was the wind

Which stood against you.

You have all of the answers.

You avoid the difficult questions,

And your feet

Frequently strike upward

At your beliefs.

You talk of bliss

Yet sing songs of the ill.

Your eyes were baptized

In ivory.

Your tongue was wet.

Synonymity

Rest assured,
Young observer
You are filled
With your years.
They hunted for you.
Know that there is now
A poem written
On your behalf...
If you accept it
As your own.

If you love it,
It is

An incredible poem.

Synonymity

Rest assured,
Young observer
You are filled
With your years.
They hunted for you.
Know that there is now
A poem written
On your behalf...
If you accept it
As your own.

If you love it,
It is

An incredible poem.

Waiting for

Laced with sun-dried tears

And a scalding message from the moon

The secret of you

Lies dormant.

I will use man-made claws

And the spine of a bear

To pry the untold story's end

With eyes closed.

The secret must be saved

But never revealed

Unless I can remember

Where my own secret wound up.

Mine once wandered like an avalanche

And it slipped through a crack

It made for itself

The sweater it wore in July.

Yours smells like pine

And the child aching to escape me

Is begging for a tiny handful

Of its light.

I have a dangerous but exciting suspicion

That looking into the secret of you

Will see it wringing itself of sweat

That its scent will be adolescently familiar.