The Walk Home

Snapdragons, pussywillows, and cattails.
Dragonsnaps, pulley windows, and catgut.
Ginger dragons, pussy widows and reeds.

The overarching back of the apocalypse.
The meniscus never touched for fear of the broken surface tension.
The perfect pour begging to be damaged.

The last train home left hours ago.
Beggars use the cardboard to tuck themselves in.
Even the crows go to sleep.

The city holds its breath and weeps silently for dawn.

And I become footsteps.



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I Like You

I like you.

With everyone else, you are a mahogany headboard. A diving platform sleeping sickness. A fainting goat. When you speak to other people, nothing but sequins and birthday presents come out. A princess of misdirection, a comedienne in wolf’s clothing, an artist hiding her deformity, a radio station for old cars, a lightning rod for kittens, a Christmas tree embarrassed at all the attention.

Around you, the oceans go still. You don’t think I’m weird or fucked up or perhaps it’s just that you acknowledge that we all are. You hoard maps and let me read them with you under the covers with a flashlight after dark. You pass me notes in class. You’re lost in this place but thrilled to be here.

You glitter on pages and leave paw prints, hoof prints, Rorschach fairy wings of lust on the backs of menus. I’m in the hot sun of your affection and for once, it’s not making me feel like a cockroach caught by a midnight kitchen light on a linoleum floor, far from the safety of the dark dust under the fridge.

Danger is your first name. You don’t pass the time so much as strangle it. You have bright eyes, sharp and clever, that see death coming from miles away. Your laugh is a mating call for those who want to shed their fear. You are a race track. You are a solar-powered omnivore bent on burning, wings still on fire from re-entry. You are a wolf with a talent for math.

I have a paintbrush, a bucket of paint, and a world full of corners that turn into trapped-animal slingshots, making life into a series of surging chapters, breathing messages into bottles. I have an etch-a-sketch, two dice, a pair of dentures, and a riding crop. Let’s take the centaurs to the steeplechase.

You’re already better than the rest. It’s all gravy from here on out.

I like you.






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