that’s how it is these days

it’s a stiff limb. another bout

of paralysis choking me 

out of deep 

sleep with no excuse. 

it’s a squeeze tight

from the wrong 

person, wrong

place, wrong 

time. 

it’s a hair caught

in my eye—  ensnared 

the way i saw a lanternfly caught 

in a spider’s web and thought: 

good. for once it’s not my responsibility 

to kill it. i swat it 

away. watch it tumble back 

down in strands that think they’re tufts, 

a Sisyphean flashback

to the days where i still try to be 

feminine regardless

of what it means to be. long 

hair is a leash— so says one of those

“for display” cops they 

wheel into schools to give dubious statistics

as scare tactics. i remember now 

it was a bad idea 

to grow my hair out of boredom.

it’s never too late to sever

the dead weight. 

it’s probably the right 

decision but I will probably

learn to regret 

it.

Roofer’s Elegy

A utility ladder claps

thunder across the grey

metallic expanse, glass rain

fills in the gaps

between paint chips and bottle caps

on the doorstep below. 

Landlord Rick is back at it, 

it seems. He stops by to glue together

what he broke last week, 

ends up shattering a window

and leaving the gaping wound

to suck in the wind. 

I guess you’d think

a millionaire would hire a guy 

for such petty

fix-its but he’s got 

time and memory burning

a hole in his pocket

the way loose 

change incessantly interrupts

with its weight and sound defying

ignorance. 

Amongst it there’s probably 

vestiges of the untethered 

roofer split

open a few weeks ago.

The same mangled

concrete soaked in 

40-something-year-old brain. 

That sunshiny October morning

you split a cig and a pot of coffee 

in spite of breaking

bread. Next thing

you know there’s thunder 

with no lightning and a deadening

downpour that reminds you to give

God a courtesy call. Doesn’t matter

who. Could be

any god at all. 

fixation

day six since you called. 

i have nearly purged

myself of food in a failing 

campaign to quiet the flies. they buzz

through the most uncanny arteries, 

flitting into and out of 

the blood. passageways

lost to regret become real 

only when their wings 

beat against 

my veins. 

each time I indulge them with fruit

rinds left to rot and crumbs sprinkled, 

i feel a pulse where

the wounds are— the points of 

entry and exit. feeling is all. to look is to blur

the image. 

each time I remember you,

i regain the teenage sensation of losing 

control; so distinct 

from the imminent madness of being overrun 

by these pests. 

then, when i still felt young, 

i fantasized about living in a hobbit hole

not unlike the mice who’ve made a home

in my gaping mouth. now i only fantasize about 

dying realities. 

Being gay lonely

is not the same as being bored

lonely or being unwanted

lonely or even being left out

lonely. 

Being gay lonely is the caging 

of tears that swell with house

beats through headphones instead

of subwoofers. It’s the knee

deep drunken reminder that out of the beautiful 

dancers and spirits only one could follow you 

away from the city.

Gay lonely is a sweet, hot 

slice through the soft spot

of the heart—  a place you never know

unless it hurts. The flesh parts

just enough to invite 

paranoia in quantities ranging 

from trace to overdose— depending

on how many worlds 

away from home

you are in this exact moment

compared to most 

others. 

If This Is Dying I’m Not Scared

I saw him (myself) emerge
from the river burdened
with the weight of water and saw it
freeze with each delirious, deleterious step not into ice
but snow piling atop the crown. The arms triangulated into eaves
connected at the temples, collecting more dust therefore sparing the windows.

A little bit
of skepticism [or a lot] can be healthy
depending on who you talk to. The only doctor (?) around for miles wafted us towards
a red door in the face
of a mountain like directing a windstorm
away from trailer parks
with this insurance: You’re in
good hands.

I never saw through
the door but it’s enough to know you and I won’t continue paying
for overpriced professional
opinions
because:

How could they call us frigid who weep
three times in a day at words and pictures
and touches from which home emerges and lives?