one for neverending love

and i will be me and

you will be the song i
sing with a mouthful of
blood and who was it that
ever promised you happiness?

how is it my fault

you chose to believe him?

why should victory feel

any different than defeat?

because love and hate

even here in the clean, cold light of early april,

in the solemn emptiness between
berkshire and speedsville, between  somewhere and
somewhere else, nowhere and

nowhere, the shit of civilization

growing up through the weeds and dirt, the

cigarette butts, styrofoam cups, fast food wrappers,

the wounded and the dying
 

the trees and the hills
 

crisp blue sky
 

no sound of traffic or of industry, but two

empty beer cans and a shattered bottle
on the side of a rutted dirt road
 

taste of rust when I
turn to kiss you
 

birds
screaming

you and i lost in the forest of meaningless symbols

the sound of human voices in

                          august rooms

the sound of heat or the

weight of it

thunder at the edges

mountains grey in the haze or

blue beneath a colorless sky

asks where’s the map?

answers why do you need it?

and both of them naked
 

both of them waiting

and pollock is dead, of course,

                              and cobain,
                               and christ,
just to give you a better idea of WHEN
                                                  and
she has freckles on her pale breasts

he is never quite comfortable

in his own skin

says i’d like to see the desert and

she smiles at him and laughs

says but i need to get home

you see?

there are always places to go but

they will never be arrived at

there are some reasons more important

than others, or at least there
those who see it this way
 

one more time he says and she agrees

there is here and now and then

                                       (later)
there is the idea that HERE and NOW
are fading into the past

sits alone in a darkening room

and begins to understand this

excerpt 1

* *

drinking poison all day and she

said she was thirsty asked
why all it did was rain and then the
needle tracks of course and all of the
tear-stained apologies

the white spaces between houses

the smell of the river and

the same old argument

said the baby should have a name and i

told her there was no baby and
she asked why i hated her

she asked why i kept denying god

and the police had a  clear shot

but then he jumped

the streets were empty all

afternoon but i kept hearing the
sound of laughing children
 

kept getting off at the wrong exit

knew i was almost home but

couldn’t figure out why

uncertain terms

someone and someone

was feeling okay was

slowly approaching
the idea of suicide
 

was four below

zero at two
in the afternoon
 

sunlight and the

taste of road salt

the ghosts of

old lovers

nothing to laugh at but i

was laughing there at
the highway’s edge
while the river froze and
the first of the massacred
children was buried

while the

conspiracy theorists
fucked each other
in curtained motel rooms

and i forget if i was

nothing but i knew we
were nowhere and it felt
like this mattered

felt like small birds

singing but without the
hope of spring

felt like frost filling the

cracks in the walls

colder than the morning

they found my father on
the dining room floor,
though the same shade of
grey, and at this point in
time all objects in the
known universe are
                  of course
still moving further
apart

at this point in time

your body
means more to me
than your name

seems like a waste of

breath to apologize
for things that aren’t
ever going to change