Ink costs more than the cool breeze of a blue day.  

Autumn comes quickly, even in the midsummer.  Maybe you know what I mean; pool of morning anxiety in my belly, or maybe it's all the whiskey, never properly appreciated in the dark, on ice cubes.

finding the lost language

she arrives when i am drifting on the bus.

not anymore, i tell her. and the others, so they wait.

so many discarded selves

and their suckling mouths.

so good on the skin.

they lilt.

why, bodied & suffer
when you are steel and suns
and something else
underneath our wet tongues?

it's only organs.
fleshwebbing & pulse. exoskeleton.
must you craft a 'lume,
to thread others into your hollow?
why boats or roads in the night?

motherless, schizophrenic god;

fragmented stars,

& the spaces in between.

lost children in a dream,
i reply.  alone,
but for the poetry 

of another hand.

the mornings feel like gold.  in love, the breeze by the hudson, the silver pen in my bag, fountain and pointed like a sword.  musicians.  piers and piers. some other land.