the highs and lows of loving

my favorite time of the day
is 5 o’clock on the weekend
a confused august,
the light levers at the peels
of my eyes

and you’re far far away

the tea kettle is crackling again,
he’s mad
and wants more drugs

the finches keep slamming their bodies
into my glass windows, they’re
full-fledged unfeathered

the pounds come like creaks
in the house’s foundation
and i startle while mixing the honey in

i ask them, why d’you want a cage?
don’t come here no more
the sky’s a gravity-defying danger,
but once you’re down there’s no way

and if you have to be on the ground,
leave the window wide open
hope the sun is nosey
hope it don’t shame today
but recharges the soul
and sends him a smile

hope you can do things again,
practice routine
hope the roof is sturdy
and the tiles are acid-tear
and he sleeps alone
when you’re not around

you hope he calls
you hope it ends because it has to end
and in a good way
in a coffin

you hope he sits still
and wonders what you’re up to
as the saturday wanes
and you blow all your wishes
and worries
up the chimney
for the birds

you hope your favorite time of the day
arrives lightly,
when the going goes
and to love
is to pray for no harsh wind
in the distance


good riddance

eating the carp whole
and expecting not to find the bones:

is like the writer without his booze,
his coffee and cigarettes
when he goes to lay his story
in the paper tombs

it’s routine without
the ritual,
without addiction
so the day may come as it goes

it’s the nightingales
in the sunlight
and the lark silhouettes
in the moonbeams,
nature’s tricksters
making us not so sure

it’s confusing
your lefts and rights,
but always managing to sleep
where there’s warmth

it’s a serious man
without a black shirt,
the book of poems
by the bedside,
the stove that barely works

it’s like the helpless
with no hope,
or the hopeful
when it’s doomed

it’s taking the longest drag
that should blacken the lungs,
but it empowers
the stamina and shortens
the miles to go

it’s something like me,
it’s something like you
— and each missing the other

it’s thinking you know better
than the great proverbs, like
love is a foolish thing
and time waits for no one

it’s letting the glass fall,
when you’d rather admire its shine

it might be that everything
is already in shards

but piecing them together
makes for a good telling

and even better
when the proof
is in the scars