A Homing Beacon

Today is the day we wade in frozen rivers,
through heartbreak, sleep
and wake in the night
victorious
With no one to clean the armour
we took to battle then.

When I miss you, it is midnight sweats,
and pre-dawn starts
eyeing winter moutnains from spring towers,
an easy isolation.

It is distraction in sorting out bills,
budgeting tears and counting the calories lost in them.

When I miss you, it is ponderous,
the creeping slow lane
passing the glitter-paved freeway I am demanding from the world.

You are the exit I want to get off at.
I need directions to our house,
 but north was never steady for me
I never understood the draw, so instead of freedom-bound
I am mired in jungles of small eyes
and quick whispers,
of sympathy and in the care of gin.

when the cellular tower calls me home

You are late autumn
cold evening rain running
home down the cracked eastern sidewalk

A pocket vibration and
the shivering answer I Will Be
soaked to the bone and my cigarette
will go out three times

Little puddle splash and the western front
is on fire

These days you are transcontinental
instead of transatlantic and I have
trouble deciphering your drunk Moroccan hand
where coffee spilled

but like you, the paper still smells of the sea.

Love in the Ashes

Listen.

There was love in this house, and I have photographic evidence to prove it.

There are pictures of us kissing,
sometimes my face is screwed up
sometimes you are pretending I am someone else
or I am pretending you are not you

And sometimes we are satisfied:
emotion breaks in the slant of my eyelash
and the placement of your hands on my clavicle

We lean in.

The lipstick already smudging on the corner of your mouth
the future ashes of our burning bridges smeared glitter under my whiskey eyes
caked to the waterline

We love harder.

I have the evidence in the flash on a bar window in Brooklyn.

We love

harder.

Subject to Change

I've been drinking since the piano started, Tom.

I'm the same kind of bad as you,

and I'm only going to the top of the hill

where the sun shines a mouth of freedom

and the cloud cover puts flowers on the flower's grave

and the rags I'm hoisting put cigars between my teeth

I grow a Wolverine

or maybe a Van Buren

but my chest concaves

and I'll take the sins of my father

if you'll take the sins of my mother

make a bone song out of this bluesy invitation,

and get me real gone.

123012-123112, "For Elliott, Part Deux ohne Trunkenheit"

Creatures like us
think too much about what it means
to be one of us.

We don't know
and our identification must always be for somewhere better
someone - ourselves of a different caliber.

I wish we could trade bodies for a day,
I would give you my breasts in an instant,
an easy femininity and heels that rarely hurt -
natural sway and carriage to be noticed.

The stares only feel terrible when you remind yourself
of what they could mean in strange crowded bars
or Post Alley after two.

In you,
I would hold tiny espresso cups,
drumming fingertips at young ladies reading Proust,
ask them what they know Anais and Henry.

I would buy a leather jack
and climb long limbed over abandoned warehouses
putting bricks in zipper pockets
I would call the fog on the pier back home
find a pretty girl
and kiss her as best my newer mouth
knew how.

121912-123012, "For Matt"

How is it more awkward
when we haven't been sleeping together?

The morning after, you are always
so mad at me and I haven't even done anything
(this time).

We are really great at drinking
and video games.
And laughing.

Don't lose patience with me
just because the sun comes up.
I love you.
You know what I mean?

122812-122912, "For Elliott, Part Une mit Kohlensaure"

You were so distracted by marriage pacts
you forgot how badly
you want life now.

There was a more important contract -
we shall not pass without the other;
you.
will not
die
without me.

Kiss me harder in the past's kitchen,
tonight we're getting everything wrong in the right way,
call me the end point in your universe's starting line,
tell me I'm not a whiskey bubble,
you really just said we'd get it right this time,
we are never honestly going to know what that means.

But I am a whiskey bubble,
ginger perfect pop on your tongue,
warm against refrigerator doors between cabinets--
There's ice in my teeth;
you're drinking out of a beaker,
I forgot how much chemistry you had.
My valence electron, drifter.
Hold tight til Sunday, little spark,
we'll be take nobility for our own soon enough.
We're almost home.

122712-122812, "For Riley"

Your best friends
are always the ones
you're a little bit in love with.

Ten year ago saw well water drunk down
with a scoffed curse that nothing
could bring you back for real;
but two musketeers,
glowing pyramids - backup spouses
afraid of weddings
real spouses afraid of how she might crack her head open,

I haven't had a cigarette in a month
but I'm really drunk. and it tastes like tea.

So dance with greater loves
who are a poem in a burrito.
and so tired.

But drive me home like I'm more precious cargo
than what's in the Versace box
or your hightops

Drive me home like I am the best idea you ever had

because your best friends
are always the ones
you're a little bit in love with.