Backhanded compliment

When the fist is your refuge,

The bloodletting is

Your dangerous wish. He

Likes to turn on his side.

Likes to make you wish

He would yell. If only

To be mistaken for violent compassion.

Your hands have coated themselves

In tremors. A reaching

For some sort of salience. They

Want to be worthy of their love's

Worth.

They feel too easily cast away.

You hate yourself

Because you know you would

Trade the silence for a tirade

Of door handles to your cheekbones,

Of matches to your palm;

Memories that your departure

Was feared.

You have met these women. Held

Them. Men. You would have freed them

If they would have allowed it.

And you hate yourself.

You wonder if there is worth

In this.

A glassful of broken beauty:

Unspeakable in its deaths.

And just once...you carefully

Place a hammer

Not wishing,

But at peace, comfort

With the recovery months of hug

And coddle.

2

I am sorry I could not remember
The name that you stole;
I have never been one to swallow rain.
My fingertips were holding tight
To my palm. I believed that to fight this
Would win you over.

My body likes to make fun of psychics like this
To prove that it can lose its own battles:
Nobody will tell me where I wind up.
Not until someone can tell me
Where I've been.

Tonight is a new kind of savior.
My breath is held
My knees are begging me
To stand.

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.