Morning song

A giant woke up in a house with tissue paper walls and light that fills every corner. Look at this painting! Look at that painting! Look at the window! They’re waking up with you. The trees are bare. Talk about how it’s prettier in the summer. Look at it and say that it is not enough for the moment.


carefully carefully
please be aware
of the green leaves
that are taking over this
the window,
with a few snowflakes
shaking around
I am covering myself
In this bright orange
Wool blanket
Eyes lowered
legs bare in the
winter sunlight streaming
through the window
I feel like a you


please for the love of god
stop apologizing
for rejecting me.
stop apologizing for
you need a place to lay your
aching fucked up head. You
couldn’t stay
with the other woman
she’s yelling things at you from her car
I woke up thinking about
the warmest day of the summer
it was rainy and we were in the corner
of your new bedroom
it was a humid warmth, contained.
you didn’t bother to acknowledge it
while I was doing everything in my power
to hold it in my hands


To the abandoned house on the corner of the street that I would judge every time that I would pass. I’d like to begin by saying that I am so sorry for judging you. I’m sorry that I would stare at your spray painted spots. I was only trying to understand why you had a high wire fence surrounding your abandoned parts. Were there people living in you? Squatters? It’s too late now. All that you stood for is gone. The brash abandonment is being replaced by a fresh coat of paint.

one day in dec.

jumping into your car
moving full speed
in a day where
nothing happened

someone is
sleeping in the back but
I don’t remember if that
was just a figment
of my imagination
I couldn’t remember

we’re going around the corner
and it’s taking everything in my power
to hold it closed

you are nothing but
the open road
door windows cracked
bruised toxic air
that you so
willingly bathe in


without the tornado people
how am I going to write poetry
seeing these shiny happy
so privileged that look like they’ve
walked off a country living catalog
I feel like I’m staring at a different life
that I never want to be a part of
I’m still looking for you
I’m still writing shitty love poems
It’s still cold and everything
seems like it has remained the
this must be the place that I come
back to, even if it’s a painful
there is a whole in my heart
the shape of the day
we spent at the park and another one
for the day
I went to meet
you by the river


are you ready for Christmas?
says the man in the green puffer vest
sitting around the table with his white family
A golden retriever passes by
where the hell am I
I’m not ready for christmas
I don’t know where my family is
I’m still recovering from a summer
spent in my own rot
there are no signs of my going crazy
I’m only going on long runs
staring at the hyper reality of the
crunchy dark brown leaves on
the somehow still green grass

last days of Nov.

the spiritual experience of opening up a window

it’s time to start packing
place all of the books that you have
left in the cardboard boxes
look under the bed
sweep all of the remnants
of life lived in this room into the dust pan
here i am staring at the accumulation
of dust, dog hair, the corner of a
condom wrapper, a cotton ball
I continue to stare at this like
its art I continue to dissect
and remember
holding on to every piece
every memory from the summer
the waterfall, the overdose
can be seen in the gray
the blue bag from the time that
I bought someone a gift that I thought
they needed but they had plenty
but left me the bag
now it’s time to roll up the rug
moving all of the feelings
and things my body into a
new room