the downfall of the serial poet

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
but not

future perfect, subjunctive

i stand alone on the edge of
disaster and skip
pebbles.  just might have been
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 there might be
nothing left except
ether and flame.



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,
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: