You Are

You are the bright obstacle
To all things made or imagined
The wasted dress maker's
Drunken sleep, the drink
And her reason for drink

The showman's two
left feet, his stage fright
The kings conscience
And his lover's lies

You are the winter's warmth,
The swimmers drought
The daughter's lust
The widow's memory

You are the anchored ship,
The wearied antibody

You are the body
Un-embodied, the stars
Unearthed in the heavens,
The spirit that wanders
Toward them forever
Forgetting earth

Attempts

from my attempts to reach you
there came an opiate child, formed
awkwardly in the trunk of my car
moist and kicking - a red eyed screamer

he would not call himself december
but ached with tremors and snow

I say this only to insult you
to make you guilty - to force you

to return my calls

Daylight Sources

placated days obey the hit parade. final whistles
the end attract, draw close the kids in the back wondrous
as a heart attack, the open core of travelers
traveling digitless, amazed cabling, construction scaffold world
made world, sinless but still afraid, self assembled star raided
gambler in a song they used to play, bury your assets in the sun.
they will not search their own - but mind the burning. assemble
no candles there, or fuel or houses, books or minds.
bury only ghosts, pocketed souls, animal voices of the murmuring kind.
These, or the winter passengers by whom no fire may be set:
The spiced children that die - the sugar children - the lyme
and snow children, only of the sightless kind, dark as that fluid
which first you breathed, suckled from daylight sources

splinter

The strange winter sun went nowhere. Meaning it did not shine, or at least did not shine to where it could be seen, to where it could light the room and the world Jonathan found that morning. It was a strange winter sun.

Screen

There was only a buzzing through the speaker where once there had been a voice then came a kind of whisper inside the machine, a rasping syllable that may have meant something to some other machine, but not to him. To him is was only noise, only the nothing of circuits continuing along a straight of time closed to him. He threw his drink toward the screen and the lights went out. Fuck it, he said.

New Blue

The radiator struggled like a drunk being beaten in a back street waking Jonathan into the 3 am cold. Once the rattle gave up everything was all the more quiet by contrast. Sleep would not return. He wrapped his head in his pillow and thought of nothing, closed his eyes against the dark that was never dark enough, against the absence that would not yield itself to him, would not open to accept him, into the hours of nothing before dawn.

Seething

The dog ran down the open alleyway to find only that it deadended. The rain collected in deep puddles. He looked around for any exit and found none. The footsteps where coming nearer. Soon they would have him. Despite the downpour he shook himself, turned to face the way he had just come and prepared in the wet for what was coming.

Mint

The standard events happened in order: waking up, wandering through it, alcohol and sleep. Food scattered throughout. A little water, conversation and piss. The rare shit in a public lavatory. All of it added up to a day, week, month. It went on this way. It goes on this way. It will. The sun above us the sun beneath.