In a Tunnel Underneath West Michigan Avenue

I swear God spoke, his voice
sputtering down from a manhole
cover, disguised as a car missing

a muffler. I could feel
the weight of the concrete
and cars bearing down on the tips

of my hair. And when I
reached to end of the tunnel,
the wall beside me opened

like a wound and I crawled
in, unaware of muddy waters
that ate at my ankles and

the quiet recitation of prayers
above. And in my final moments,
I simply clung to myself and began
singing It Is Well With My Soul.

The Burning Bush

Everyone, everywhere,
has fallen asleep
in the bushes.

Far away, a torch
is dropped. Not one person
wakes to help. Who can blame
them? Dark is falling out
over the ridge. Soon,
the dead will bury themselves.
And then who will be left
to mourn the burning bush?

The Last Day of Summer

Your hand is heavy
in mine. Shall I cut
it off and prop
the door open?

I don't believe the leaves
have ever fallen so quickly.

The wind has a way
of sweeping leaves inside.

Damn the debris of autumn,
you mutter, quiet-like,
just above a whisper.

Later, in the kitchen,
an apple crisp is being born,
and in the cupboard,
a plate has cracked in half.

The Petoskey stones
that we gathered
stare at me from the window sill.

In the closet, our tent
has already started to hibernate.

By this time tomorrow,
I will have forgotten your name.

For now, you smile and brush
the hair out of your eyes,
quiet-like, just above a whisper.

In Matt's Wake

I.
We wore feathered hats and
sleek animal hides, our eyes
gazing skyward while we
slaughtered

The sacrificial lamb on a bed
of toothless smiles and baby
blue eyes, pretending not to
notice

How the blood stained like
satin upon our fingertips.

II.
Mother cried in the corner,
Father wept from the rafters,
and we shot holes in the concrete
supports with Red Rider's, the
BB's embedding themselves like

(the crayons that lack sheaths, waxy
scribbles on sheets of construction
paper, tiny legs and arms of paper
dolls that we ripped and shredded
into colorful confetti
and threw like rice at a wedding
or a kindergarten valentine's party)

mothers tucking their only child in at night,
reading Dr. Seuss to soothe the
monsters in the closet, under the bed,
in the back alleys of our minds and tongues
and black cavity teeth.

III.
I heard talk about Job cursing God,
though it was only a rumor.

I mean, how could a straight shooter
like Job, a wealthy, faithful, God-fearing son
of a gun, turn on his heels with
his middle finger raised in
reverence and yell

Fuck off!

And, how could he then proceed
to the single tree left in his pastures,
where his sheep and cattle and all
his little boys and girls once gathered,
sling one end of his hempen rope over a branch
bent to heaven, and cleanly knot a noose
on the other?

(I would imagine that he stood
on a branch not eight feet
from the ground. Did he
jump, his neck snapping
like a firecracker,
or did the tree rear up as if piloted
by God himself, and strike him
dead upon the earth?)

Tell me, does it seem plausible that
he would slip his head into that noose
and tug it tight?


Jesus wept and
Job hung.

IV.
We sat on top of
The Last Supper,
overlooking the cemetery that was
bathed in pale moonlight, passing
a bowl between us as we partook in
silent communion.

Clouds struggled to take form
under the moons sad smile,
molding themselves into a question
that I could not be bothered with.

I wondered what it felt like to
trespass amongst the gaping craters,
bounding across the surface without
gravity's grip.

I closed my eyes and thought about
(the tree where Matt smoked his last
three cigarettes in succession, the
broken branch where he stood until
it could hold his weight no longer, how
the sky watched helplessly and mourned
late into the morning) how slowly the earth
spins.

Eulogy For the Moon

I throw away napkins
with words like desperado
and shampoo written on them.
They sink to the bottom of
the trash-can and set themselves
on fire. I stick my head inside to
watch the burning closely.

I carve the letters for midnight
on birch bark and place them in the corner.
I sleep better at nights knowing the time.

I hear a cat moaning in the street
and I swear it spoke.

I am an orphan.
Please kill me.

I call a taxi and have it run the damn thing over.
I start to write a eulogy for the cat,
but realize that only the moon
sways the ocean's tides.

I write a eulogy for the moon instead.

Ich bin ein Tråumer.
Bitte töten mich.

I fire my gun into the sky and slap
the concrete with the palms of my hands.
I wring a pigeon's neck and pluck
the beak off. I rip the nails from my fingers
and choke them down. I push my
pregnant head down the stairs and abort
all over the basement floor.

The moon swells my dreams.

A Man Becomes Him

A boy pulls stitches from
his knee and stretches them out
on stone tablets. He eats
a typewriter whole
and chokes.

His letters fall out.

He carves a cavern out of stone and stitches.
A pick axe becomes him.

He secures himself a future
by financing further expeditions.

His letters are fully mature by age twenty.
He learns how to have conversations with them.

He fully integrates blasphemy
into the cave's ecosystem.

A moth brings him berries.
He kills the messenger and molds himself out of clay.

He cannot recall a time where wild-fires spread
this far south. He calls upon himself and creates
a one man fire line.

He re-discovers the typewriter in his stomach.
He finds the word for water and pumps it on the fire.
He finds the word for sky and paints it on the domed ceiling.
He finds the word for life and breathes it on the dirt.
He finds the words for himself.

A man becomes him.

White Picket Fence

We were driving in the stakes
of a white picket fence, handkerchiefs
hanging out of our pockets.

A man was whistling
to himself in the distance.

A dog was barking.

The earth was sagging under the post
like an old pair of breasts.

The sun spoke in drawn-out
sighs.

I drank water from a mason jar.

I could taste the dank dirt
beneath my fingernails.

We swung mallets like
a prison chain-gang.

A cow stared at us from across
the way, a wad of cud sifting
between its jaws.

A pile of rocks grumbled
and walked up to us.

We counted our eggs and shot
a rooster out of a cannon.

Hunger hibernated in the pit
of my stomach, so I broke down
and wept.

I squat and defecate in the dirt.