Tongue turned cat-like in the course of the night,

Rasping against the backs of wine-dark teeth,

I am terrified of saying something wrong 

And getting kicked out of your garden,

Where the avocado tree in your window-sill 

And the grass at my feet fulfill the need of

Blocking out all the concrete world around us.

There is a fear of betrayal, here; I was taught

how gardens work.

So I sit, in the quiet moment and with wine,

Waiting to see what your flaming sword

Will become.

Errantry

Twice a week & sometimes thrice
We go a-hunting for the grail;
Some nights, we clean up nice,
And other knights, we fail.

The thing cures ills and memory,
This is said about the grail,
But it smacks of ephemery,
Sung by beggars, old and frail.

This we know: the thing's a cup,
When we go hunting for the grail;
So we go and drink things up,
Water, whiskey, and bitter ale.

Empty bottles. My mouth is a pit.
Like rain I didn't know to expect,
Last night falls in pieces about me.
Rising from my bed in the noon light,
I step in a puddle of your words, mine,
And wind throws up the look of your face.

There is no shelter from this drowning,
No breath without water
And all the dry comfort in the world
Is knowing that somewhere you are
Also drenched.

A Wandering Song

I went out to the darkened bar,

Because a hole was in my chest;

I drank till tongue and teeth were smooth,

Till wind and moonlight were the best.
And when the people flickered by
Some were snared by ether, by pin,

And we sang our own forgotten songs,

Songs that were made for drowning in.

When I awoke upon the floor,

Blasted, bloated, quite alone,

I tried and failed to sleep some more,

And pretend that I was home.

My breast was sated for a time,

While I was unsure of my name,

But by and by my thoughts grew whole,

And I was left an empty frame.

Though I'm tired now of going

With hollow folk, and sorrow folk,

Still I'll dance, & still I'll stumble,

Still I'll sing, & still I'll choke,

And with my hands that know the night

Refill the whole I have become

With all the things that bless the moon

And turn to nothing in the sun.

For Rose, and all the daughters.

If the deeper waters are closed to me now,

If moonlight can only tell me of distance,

If even the easy rhymes crumble,

Let me have the oil-slick puddles

And muggy days, wine-bottles sun-warmed,

But free,

And walking before sprinting before escape velocities, 

And before carriages,

So let us wade in the warm and salt,

Maybe there are tides here too.

Dear Sir or Ma'am:

You are a better person than I,
By which I mean:
Better at being a person than I,
And I love you,
And you are always in my head,

And I think that
is how we came by god.

The problem with poets.

The problem with poets
Is they think you're a vessel
To carry all their thoughts
And the things that they wrestle.

Not once does it occur,
As they wail & gnash & moan
And pour out all their words,
That you've got some of your own.

There are no empty cups;
We each hold something wet.
Some have begun to leak,
And the others haven't yet.

Dubious

Some hot damned night and I'm a foreigner;
The familiar hotel glass sweats with me,
And the familiar muzak lies about my being here,
Away, away from that scorned reality

Where folks fuck up if they don't just fuck,
Where words that might matter are permitted,
Where I am close to the girl who is the crux
Of endless, bloodless, somehow limited

Amour, some nemesis she has become,
Living in a skin that has gone away
For the weekend. This glass, my muffled drum,
Will only let stare or let me pray.

I don't pray. And then the glass is empty,
And of the emptiness inside it I have plenty.

I spill some blood behind the door,
Since it's good luck and I have more.
I spill my words within the church;
You could find them if you searched.
I spill my water at the grave,
And then it's easier to be brave.
I spill some rock salt at the gate,
The people at the grave to sate.
I spill my hours in the night,
As I rather thought I might;
And spill some seed before I'm home
Because it's hard to be alone.

Poem Imitating MacNeice

And the earth conspires to
Set fire to the golden times,
When we were young, better
Unfettered to our bolder crimes,
The sirens chime,
And smoke rises higher.