Ghost Plant

One story
up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I wait.
I watch oxygen expand
into greatness.

Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.

God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.

One story
below me, kids are
throwing stones.
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.

When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
the crickets.
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
rename me.

This Wild Death

I am sitting in a mirror,
hurrying truth faster than it has time
to find itself,
my skin is catching up
and I am missing everything.

I let the tigers out, they crawl
around, scratching my walls,
guarding the music that played three years ago
while I unwrapped myself
for love. I can not
make them leave!

This room is buried
deeper than his coffin. I breathe
less than the body he left
behind, tight blue lips
whisper
how cold it is down here!

Dig me out of this mirror,
this wild death! Is killing me
a plan? Is taking life
straight from my skin
a revenge? I can not
start a dead heart. I can not.

I Am Part Of The Night

It is always the moon whispering
with foul breath to me,
while stars drip like bad oil
paint, chips in a perfect, black sky.

The sun doesn’t say anything. It just sits
in its place, waiting for the day
it can finally rest.
I let the sun go, on its own,
but I try to join the night.
I try to wrap my body, like silk,  around
time that sleeps,
that nods with my conversation
and smiles
in agreement.

We speak a language together, of
the deep ocean’s waves of regret
that cry into the dry sand of nostalgia,
creating mud of desire,
longing for its peaceful aquatic home
below the drama of tides;
of every shadow that
slices through jealous silence,
lonely crickets,
hollow frogs,
desperate bats free of their caves;

I will never be involved with a burning star –
I am part of the night.
I am a dead reflection of light
watching the world sleep.

Tonight

I’m going to be in love tonight
under this hidden moon
in this welcome season
just tonight
as this house creaks like
seventy year old bones,
as murders grow in awful hands,
as no one sets foot on
this same carpet.

I’m going to kiss warm lips tonight
of a living man
who breathes cold opinion
and holds me in his eyes,
who clears distance from hollow
rooms,
who says nothing,
who lays unknowingly, tonight, beside me
with no one around to overhear us.

I am going to make love tonight
to a suspect of betrayal,
to my heart’s gravity,
to a memory that has been
soaking in the fall.

Listen. It is perfectly safe.
Look around.
No one is near. It has been years
since I fell asleep with
my skin underneath him, falling,
falling in to some
confession, and tonight
I will not hear a sliver of his voice
and he will not know
that tonight’s moon will
cover up his absence,
for me.