I brought everything I had to your front door.

I brought all I had, and I brought more.

You looked at my own sorry lot,

And told me all the things that I’d forgot.

My old journal with cracks that show too much

Matched with the crease along my face, once tough.

Then you ran your fingers against my trash,

And I knew I couldn’t hide my past.

Well now I have an avalanche.

It sinks me down beneath its depths, and I think it is warm

at first.

The cushion of snow and the less that I know,

Give me peace under that mountain of cold.

The white seems less bright from the inside out,

And now, it seemed, I was fitting in to a mold.

I want to capture the stars in her voice,

And listen to it every night before I fall asleep.

What do willows have to weep about?

They’ve never had to bare their hearts to the test,

Out in the woods to the West.

Their bark is rough, and they can rest.

They stand tall but hide their face.

They haven’t fear of what to make

of themselves.

The most self-loathing of those noble trees.

I forgot how to yell,

So I whispered instead.

And when those silent sighs slipped out,

I found myself saying secrets.

Later on, I tried a room temperature volume.

It was jarring and of course,

Coarse like sandpaper.

When I trained my tired tongue to build up,

To scream and yell, I found myself trying to tell

The thoughts that scare me most.

I emptied out my valves again.

The daily sludge has closed the factory,

But I got most of everything out and

Into the fresh air.

Oh what a greasy ocean of despair!

But a man in front of a rickshaw once told me

That backs are made for more than their weight.

They are meant to break,

But he hasn’t found his limit yet.

I’ve found it so many times,

I had to redraw the line.

Plum colored roar,

And I swore I could see,

The tangerines of your cheeks in cardboard,

And your teeth like tambourines shaking and chafing against your tongue.

A whole room of beds,

But I’ve had enough sleep for a lifetime like mine.

My temples are stone smooth from pillow-wear,

A cracked once-holy church of wear and tear.

Is it nighttime yet?

Who’s to say I’m not already dead?

Flowers, candles, thick carpet — you’ve mourned me already,

But blooming weeds will wilt and bleed.

Could we agree to stop, together, already?

I suppose I could,

Take the ellipses, put on a cleaner shirt.

If you want me, buy me in paperback.

Drip coffee along my pages and take notes in my margins.

Carry me in back pockets and purses,

On train rides and long drives.

Rip out a page to give to a friend.

Maybe I’ll be helpful then.

Underline my best parts,

Glaze over the bad,

And do me the favor of ignoring my mistakes.

I’ve heard that I’m made of a few.

Keep in mind that I’m fragile in binding.

My leaves might fall out,

But there’s comforting beauty in that,

And fragility can breed love, or so I’ve read.

Thumb me through on sunny afternoons and rainy mornings,

With a smile up to your cheeks,

And reread me later to see if the ending has changed.

Visceral and vasceral and the not-seen-things

Spell out my nonsense story.

With words like chelin and ultranguishing,

I don’t often nail down the rightest word,

Or the yesser phrase,

But I try my best.

An animal ferocity embraced my imagination as it passed my midnight window.

The serial laughter and morose clapping of hands intrigued my

Moments

Before the flapping gates of dreams closed for the night.

It struck me odd to hear, to be witness to the joyous sound

So obviously troubled by some darkness.

It carried doubt and dreams with no intent of accomplishment

And settled with a sense of acceptance.

I drifted off to those thoughts.

They pierced my sleeping cinema and draped across the plot therein,

And pushed my adventures into the realm of anxious waiting.

It seems I waited all night for the voice to come again,

And I awoke to a monstrous grin.