my gods live in the places I have bled
the trees under which I have surrendered to man and moon
my gods live in coastlines I have wandered
they are sand dollars in a shoe box
ashes of friends
poems scribbled on boarding passes
napkins, bank statements.

my gods are ferocious and constantly changing
they live in stark landscapes of browning corn 
in the mountains tall and grey,
covering the sunrise
offering nothing more than shadows and hopes

things move on.
the whole world can sit still on
purpose,
we can all anchor our flesh to
the center of the globe
but the earth will still turn.
i can dig my heels into the dirt,
and age will still move across my face.
these things are as certain
as the snow
falling
silent and slow
like a traitor's head
on a cloudy morning.
with the whole town watching
in silent shock, grateful for a swift blade
and the good fortune to still
be moving.

It doesn't matter who loves you.
sometimes the past creates a
terror in your heart that cant be soothed.
no matter the man, the woman
no matter the comfort
especially the comfort
no matter the love they give
and because of the love they give.
There are parts of you so shattered
they cant be glued.
Shards of life so tiny
so sharp
they could shred the clouds
they could make the air bleed.

This couch gives me respite
from feigned intimacy, and fools gold tooth smiles
from tossing and turning all night
in high thread count sheets
the couch is kind
and I am tired.
lonely like a fledgling that fell
staring down the barrel of a whole life lived
just like today.
praying to the gods of night
for some incendiary thing to happen while I sleep.
Someone to change me or kill me.
Someone to hold me like a glass heart or shatter me beyond glue

I have never been afraid of getting old.
though most of my friends are.
I spend many of my nights thinking
of the days to come
when I am alone
unknown
misunderstood
surrounded by the young,
their arrogant kindness
their presumptive pitty.
I think those will be the days when I am
most in my power.
when I know best who I am
and have the glorious memories of
a life lived,
memories of friends, pets, and lovers,
smells, dawns, and cities.
until then, i will be lost within the
hordes of ticking, whirring, cogs
unaware of the gravity of our lives
the importance of our memories.
lumped in with the masses of thirty-somethings
terrified of being old, and alone.
but I have never been afraid of getting old.
I am afraid of spiders.

some mornings im not awake
until my fingers hit the keys
until the music of the morning
drowns out the
confusion in my head

until my feet are sure when

they touch the floor

that the floor will touch them back.

some mornings

I have to find my way back to this world

Through someone else's skin

I have to sit post-coital sipping coffee

Writing words without purpose

without glasses

without lights

In the brown dimmed light of someone else’s bedroom

With someone else’s pen

Then there are nights that become morning

Demons take over my bed

The couch becomes the only

Place I can get warm

While the plants watch over me

In 4am silence

And my fingers hit the keys

Until the dawn fades me into sleep

Warm, safe, soft sleep.

this is a winter of desperate acts of silence
a season of shutting up and taking shit
scrounging like mice for crumbs
and settling for what
is handed out.
always, there is a lion in me stalking
down the next disappointment
ready to wrap her
teeth around the jugular of a shitty paycheck
drain the blood from a lying lover, and leave the carcass
of winter in the brown grass for the hyenas to pick apart
...but i'm told spring will come soon