Monday, January 31st - "Some Things I Don't Miss About College"

I tap my pen slowly against my lips, feel the reverberations

descend like shadows across the lower half of my face. I inhale slowly

the fumes from the lukewarm cup of coffee, sitting wanly

just atop an uncountable pile of papers and folders, names

of countries I haven't traveled to, love songs

to which I can't remember the words. Even now, I have tried to forget

what it smells like between the sheet coverings,

how it feels to dangle my toes off the edge of the bedpost

and pretend I'm keeping warm at night. Beneath

the endless analyses of Nietzsche which I haven't consumed,

sheet music to Beethoven concertos, roomfuls of novels

I regret having purchased, I still watch my reflection

staring back through the windowpane, each gleaming tooth

in my half-open, drooling mouth, each crescent moon shape

creeping dully across my numbed, nearly blissful half-smile,

each dimple on my face that I count as a victory,

all pale reminders of the innumerable times

that I still watched the dawn lights for signs of escape.

Sunday, January 30th - "Landscape in E Flat Minor"

A painted red tree, and a hole in the snow carpet,

both barely visible from the view

of the nearest windowpane, covered in frost. I suppose

that from the perspective of the universe, we too

are nearly disappearing each minute,

receding further and further into a fabric haze of memories

and portraits drawn on torn canvases. From

high enough up, even a crimson-tinted tree

looks no different than the evergreens beside it,

their hoary majesty testifying to the fact

that seasons, too, come to an end,

like the cruel glare of the winter sun by morning.

I was writing you a letter asking forgiveness on the day

when the stop stopped shining, and I thought

I was the only one in the world still visible from outer space.

Saturday, January 29th - "A Demonstration of My Manliness on the Train Tracks at Night"

Every night

just when

I think the world

has stopped

paying notice,

I lie down

roughly halfway

between here

and there,

and count

backwards

from ten,

seeing

if by the time

I get to one
I'm still

halfway

between breathing

and stopping.

Friday, January 28th - "Imprints"

Next to the patterned stones

        which dot the bottom of this path,

                even the sun's shining above

seems to leave little

        impression, as if to ask

                 permission to place one's feet

in front of one

       is to ask permission

                to be forgotten after the thaw.

Thursday, January 27th - "Stain on White Fabric"

Pretend this is illuminated. Pretend you can see.

Composed entirely of blood and fluid,

the body shines against a blank background.

Beneath the snow a violet reaches for God.

Solar flares blow, capillaries burst.

Hands touch waists, grass testifies to its glory.

Shift beneath the lamplight and pretend

you're not staring. Somewhere

in the middle of the night, a corpse waits,

its breath almost an illusion. Stand

on your heels and pretend not to notice.

I'll be wearing red beside you until spring.

Wednesday, January 26th - "Mutually Assured Destruction"

We see each other's faces

only in the reflections

that litter the snow like fossils.

Our hardened half-smiles

glitter faintly

amidst the dusky blanket

spread out softly beneath us.

Although I recognize

the gleam of my sapphire eyes

in yours, somehow

you don't remember

that we share the same histories.

Still, the snow is cleansing,

like a fire that never

leaves a trace of its going.

Now, like a cliff that never

looks down at the sea,

your cheeks resemble

the torn curtains

of the bedrooms where you bore me.

I wanted to ask you

to dig beneath the blanket

and come back up

with a single blade of grass

to place within my teeth,

but instead, I'll settle

for a single black slip coat

to wear come summer,

when everyone asks me

why my skin is suddenly whiter

than the blood cells dying beneath it.

Tuesday, January 25th - "Rubble"

I meant to tell you

to take your shoes with you

when you left, but somehow

the thought escaped me. Others

leave pantyhose, chipped nail polish,

helixes of saliva stained red.

By night, the neighbors

sing hymns of praise,

a faint glow barely detectable

through the windows across the street.

By the last light of the moon,

we draw escape routes in the crevasses

between each other's

shoulder blades, knowing

that by the morning, they'll be gone,

just like the shadow

on the wooden floorboards,

the arm around the waist,

and the torn shoelace, a mere excuse

to keep dawn separate from dream.

Monday, February 24 - "Crime Scene"

Your hands spent the night

rifling through these bedsheets,

looking for motion

where it cannot be seen.

These first rays of light

are always the deadliest.

Sunday, January 23rd - "Stained Glass Skies"

 

The sandpaper bricks

have come to cherish the clouds,

to desire the touch

of their silk smooth fingers

on the surface of the sky.

Men pass below and whisper,

scheme, ask for change

to buy a spare cup of coffee

and waste it in the rain.

Watching through the window,

we clasp hands briefly

and turn aside to go,

saying that it's preferable, on a day

like today, to frolic in the building's

silhouette, or else risk the crackling light

staining our foreheads pure gold.