Don’t miss me in memories. I am not the recall kind of lover, I am not fond and ever-present. Miss me in the neurosis. Long for me under street lamps we could have held hands under. Mourn the ghost of the laugh that’s dead from you. Never like my new one quite as much until we’re old and you tell the nurse to get you whiskey on the rocks, you’re tired of the shits and in the comfort of mortality’s aura I laugh how I used to and hearing it after all these years of laughter purgatory, the wait was worth it. So don’t miss me like sandbags. Miss me in moments. Miss me in “wish you were here.” Miss me the constant of an hourglass laying in the vacuum of a universe too big for our minds. Miss me in minds, in wicked nostalgia that gives third degree burns to the chakras that still listen. Miss me in always, often, only when it matters, but miss me in matter. Miss me in anti-matter, too, in ancient and modern. Miss me creationist, in nonsense, miss me in evolution. Remember that one. Miss me in two-way tickets and not breaking promises. Miss me in the corpse of your rotting integrity, honesty, honestly. Miss me honestly. Don’t miss me in memories. Miss me in understanding, in forgiveness, in potential— that wild becoming, miss me in the afterglow. Miss me in fantasy, the “wish you were,” the “once you were.” Miss me in the present, calm and constant as the same high I’m chasing. Miss me sober first.

the cradle of goodbye

kiss me next to the end of the world
somewhere language has transcended and
communication is something tangibly coherent
but mostly kind to you

i want my hipbones lost in sand
i want castles on my collarbones and
moonshine drunk off the silk of my thighs

i want to radio aliens from across the universe
and erupt from the pit of a volcano
thousands of miles away where civilization
is a hazard to what’s real

(—i want to mostly be real
i want violins in the concerto of my discourse
i want violent renditions of our racing pulses
i want your bones in intimate tact with my own
i want a bouquet of all the thoughts you let go of too easy
i want to say “i love you” and mean it—)

except it is (—except when i don’t—)
except i bought your poems from the corner
and sold them to the local museum for thousands.
i pretended your metaphors are mine,
the spines of your prose the ghost
of everything we didn’t say and at least

we’ll never pretend we made it (after all)

(cashed my check & got meds with dad, saw my brother and his girl for a little while, turned a decent profit, got hired as a music & music business independent contractor for a magazine [here’s to burning man free next year, ha!], daily meditation begins tomorrow)

God, I think my heart was an accident.

Take me back to the factory. I need to
be born of steel ribs and diamond-
bred fists. Tell my courage to stop
putting its cigarette butts out on
the lining of my tongue.

God, I didn’t think you could hear me,

but Sunday church said otherwise and now
I’m old enough to take shots until you blur
somewhere the sticky of my ribs won’t catch
your ghost. Your in-

excusable distance. God, I think my mind

I think my mind
I think my mind up
every day I don’t hear from you—

throw the scraps of my limbs to the wolves
and the split ends of my neurons to the stars
at least when I pray to the moon, she’s too
embarrassed when she doesn’t respond
to stay until morning.

1. Offer the wolves your arm only from the elbow down. Leave tourniquet space. Do not offer them your calves. Do not offer them your side. Do not let them near your femoral artery, your jugular. Give them only your arm.

2. Wear chapstick when kissing the bomb.

3. Pretend you don’t know English.

4. Pretend you never met her.

5. Offer the bomb to the wolves. Offer the wolves to the zombies.

6. Only insert a clean knife into your chest. Rusty ones will cause tetanus. Or infection.

7. Don’t inhale.

8. Realize that this love was not your trainwreck, was not the truck that flattened you, was not your Waterloo, did not cause massive hemorrhaging from a rusty knife. That love is still to come.

9. Use a rusty knife to cut through most of the noose in a strategic place so that it breaks when your weight is on it.

10. Practice desperate pleas for attention, louder calls for help. Learn them in English, French, Spanish: May Day, Aidez-Moi, Ayúdeme.

11. Don’t kiss trainwrecks. Don’t kiss knives. Don’t kiss.

12. Pretend you made up the zombies, and only superheroes exist.

13. Pretend there is no kryptonite.

14. Pretend there was no love so sweet that you would have died for it, pretend that it does not belong to someone else now, pretend like your heart depends on it because it does. Pretend there is no wreck — you watched the train go by and felt the air brush your face and that was it. Another train passing. You do not need trains. You can fly. You are a superhero. And there is no kryptonite.

15. Forget her name.

the wicked buddhist wishlist

i.
flame retardant cells

ii.
the giant tethers of the pulse resting peacefully
in the heart of whatever we are
wherever that blackhole is in the center of our galaxy
whatever our atoms are told to be made up of

iii.
all is one is not comforting

iv.
neither is in the moment, neither is
this, too, shall pass
that’s not the right proverb it goes something like
screaming with lungs full of sandbags into
the fabric of space time continuuty
that never talks back

v.
not even in binary, so so so
write us labels made up in the jeopardy
of ego death at 5am in the morning alone

we are landmines this time of night

I am pinning my mind to the wall,
arms behind my back and
willful ignorance to chaos

(what fills an arsonist,
the heart is a fragile token)

and we are the mistaken Gods
yearning for the meaning of life
a good line, a great fuck, the moon (—
that poor slut of poetry we abuse
the vulnerability of, wasting it
on poems that never wake up).

One day my mind will mean something again
among the pinholes and chains
my lungs are intimate with.

Each war of my thoughts turn inside;
the ricochet of my pulse is a grenade
I never throw in the right direction.

"I can control the tides and you still can’t love me."

"Bend time on all fours and then we’ll talk. I’m not interested in foreplay."

guys i’ve been teaching myself how to make good little decisions and it really does pay off you know, like in the living with yourself way in the “how in the hell did i let myself get here and why am i not the person i know i’m capable of being” sort of way do any of you ever feel like that can any of us understand the entire depth of what another sentient being experiences, like i’m just scrambling words hoping to have something make sense that mandates all i’ve got going on in my heart at any given time i mean do we understand the implications of the millennia of evolution language is going to continue evolving to in the coming eons of our collective species (if we are able survive) i mean i don’t even really know how i got here i miss laying in the grass listening to crickets and i don’t know where to pour myself i don’t know where to spill all the excess whatever this is that lives in me i mean it’s a monster i mean i’m not a monster but it is and association is inevitable it’s the foundation of psychology it’s a piece of shit don’t even get me started on america right now i mean okay. i haven’t been able to write any love letters that don’t have me in a panic attack by the first sentence. none of them have been worth finishing. anything i’ve got to say now is just scraps in the wind i keep ashing on.

this morning i am a mirage that tastes like morning coffee
and my bones are pill bottles my marrow is eager to overfill
call it passion for life, call it cat call for death, it all goes down

to open eyes and past times sold in corners of the mind
we’ll never know how to get back to next week
or how to pick the lock of when logic ain’t enough
don’t let me pretend i know what i’m talking about
really i’m just staring at the moon waiting for it to break in two
and they’re talking a mile a minute things i, i, i
just can’t seem to care about. not with a sunrise like this.