the downfall of the serial poet

he
skins soul and shins on
the sharp edge of a reality
in which he is
but a guest, where in one
drowning amber moment a
golden-skin-filtered finger brushes
hazily against un-
conscience: a heart
saying its
hands would kill
if they had the strength; instead
his thin wrists, tied
down to their bundle of bricks and
bruised dreams,
sink into spring’s
muddy riverbanks where
suddenly life is
existence
but not
existence
life.

future perfect, subjunctive

fey,
incomprehensible,
i stand alone on the edge of
disaster and skip
pebbles.  just might have been
mistaken,
thought perhaps
i had a soul

mate, but i
am not who i
used to be, not yet
halfway there

jumping lightly over
the rocks at low tide i
can’t help
thinking that by
tomorrow’s
tomorrow there might be
nothing left except
ether and flame.

hope

maybe

when this still-beating thing
underneath my ribcage grows
roots enough to grab
onto something worth
grabbing; when those roots
turn tough enough to send
their snaking fibers back
up into its sagging walls; when
those slips of fiber become
ropes to bind and hold and
hang, then,
maybe,
a single bubble squeezed
from the microscopic cracks
between serum and soul will rise free
and from the depths of this chest
go whistling through windpipes and
saliva to form a solitary
syllable on tongue-whet lips:

……..