we are the same backwards and forwards.
There is nothing that is not god.
Here I am leaving, old man
Bundled in brown breathing heavy out
The doors of the beautiful blood-blown carpet.
Here are the tears of leaving you,
Forming the lake I could not stop writing about through my
adolescence,
Before we ever met.
I see it in the movies, lake blue, your blue, eyes
panning the strange patterns speaking in the curtains
at the border, that light blue of dawn curling through
everything
like smoke letters, that would-be title of my first book
but instead that was a moment to accept
apocalypse. Your smell laughs here
and there in moments, like now, when I can
spare the time. It grows cold as glass shards
beneath advertisements for bankrupt businesses
I think philly will never erase, maybe it can’t.
I burn hot, furnace fur where a history of lovers
Scratch their names but here,
Now, you are writhing this moment and with your hands open
Pushing it to the blue flame. In graffiti
Whispers, our perfection clouds itself
Like a storm, and we love
The beginning and end, don't we? Indescribable
And mimicking and indecipherable whether a breath
In or out. But in the middle here,
The n’s, where hope and sadness, excitement,
Love, human emotions prevail,
I will hold your neck hard and knowing,
Like the spine of the book I read every summer. Babe,
I know it’s confusing but I feel it everywhere
Around me and loving you is like rereading
All my favorites but somehow escaping out.
It isn’t you at all, or even us, it’s that
The pages are falling out and across the country
Lie roads to be driven and eyes
To be looked into and skies to open
And all already, already there. This is the wonder
Of a world so full, not me as in the solipsistic days
Of highschool catching smoke in the alleys,
But everyone's infinitely outwards and whole—the train
Overhead sounding the clop clop of horses coming to the
river,
And the night, this night carrying my whole life
To me in a breaking open moment I know well.
She is dead. And she is dying and my first child
Is being born screaming and I cry alone in the theatre.
Orange and grey, green and black, gifted shoes dissolving
And trees growing like lungs to better take it in, my dear.
The moon is full as it was when my mother released the hawk
that had crashed onto our porch through the harsh metal wires of a screen I had
helped put up two years before that would later be chewed through by a squirrel
and now overlook the closed down pool in light winter snow that will house the 85th birthday
of Sidney who will eventually lose it and die. I wrote a song for her with
chords Michal had written for a musical. Ab minor.
You too know death. See it. I choose this here, again and
again.
Backwards and forwards.
Her in chemo refusing to let me see,
Or her showing her brown eyes to me coming for the first
time
Or those eyes lighting up for another,
Or my mother spitting bile into a pink fedora deep in the
night as I rub her back,
Or you asking me to call you a slut
Or paul’s nervous grin when the hearing aide goes out
Or john threatening to kill me in the black woods by the
lake
Or the car crashes that almost claimed my friends
Or the mushroom gangplanks to the moon
Or the endless giggles over the availability of every damn
thing to be played with
Or when I told off a boss for the first time in his office
and he shut his mouth and took it
Or when I tasted victory in dweh’s champagne toast and his
hand on my shoulder,
Or in my fear at the darkening road on the wrong highway
outside of Wroclaw
Or in the constant love filling purposefully each morning
eyes opening sun down or up but a day coming full of trials,
Or in the way I always leave and begin again
Ive got it on my back because I know
There is nothing that is not god.
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