1/30

A year ago, next month, I sat in the
desert cold, under the stars.

Framed before them were Vasquez's
rocks and their grinning teeth.

I was made warm next to Via.

If I were to drive 20 minutes from here,
I'd be in the same place

and my guess is that it would be the same
as how I had left it.

I'd see the stars hanging over rocky
formations. I'd feel their weight, and find

comfort in their never changing state.
And when time has echoed lives into it's

quiet chasms,
there will always be memories.

2/9

The art is in

the language is in

the story is in

it's punctuation.

The pilot who anticipated
the landing. The score that
soars a sore, bruising. The
page that ends in one more line. Forever
bound.

the hunter


Powdered for the gun

arching to catch fire

dregs of a thought,

catch in the snare.

a bear

stretched dry,
thinks sad,
impending.

a hawk

can't do shit
and the hunter
can't do shit
so it's a zero score game.

(The hunter claims sanity
in striking the list through).

A deer

sears snow
with a violet tear

a dove

dear and dead.

The Hunter, misses,

Mikey's heart, unmarked.

Mikey cries
the bloodied snow who heard
the shots now listens,

and he's kind, but
he cannot do anything for
the list anymore.
for it
all and for himself.
real love

in

his stare.

cry.

it's what he
does right by. the
blue tears burned and
bled

killed forever, for a
moment.

Post it note voicemail riding coach

Express

Time isn’t anything
what i know is this,
i wake up
and there are things to be done
and somehow,
somehow,

Tender

Vine is an entry
crawling and predicting
i anticipate
that climbing
is witnessing myself.

Baggage

Find
me
ahead on the tracks
know i
am there
know the shape of my back,

Pullman sleeper

or strain to see
my face as it were.

Dining

Though i had missed her,
do you think she saw me
as she looked to the
earth below?
will i be made of her memory
when she thrashed a
shadow onto 30% of Los Angeles
at 11:23 am?

I am running and
calling after you.
I can only hear

emptied traces or

my own message left on the line,

singing back.

stream

leather strap and nicotine wraps
around your wrist. attempt the smoke that isn't
yours, a man ticks
like a

bomb.from the passenger seat, i
think of it like racing. not
faster than the lover geese. not faster than
a commercial passenger plane. not faster

than
leather and nicotine
wears your face, your
hunger,
smells of waffles
or maybe it's the fog

haunting
higher, reaching for
the stars, and

the wind
between the
stars.

it lets, it
starts to rain.