Stop-Loss

I'm desperate for material

raw poetics gradually lost

as a digital clock loses time

an unexplained inevitability

of electricity

of light bulbs tied to kites

ideas that require a storm
to snap into being

I've been going over journals
papers and wires
where I've kept track
of combinations
star-crossed words
ready to die on poisoned pens
for the chance
to live together forever

It's just hard to kill
what's already undead
literal zombies
taking themselves seriously
as they shamble along
like soldiers
returned to war
until something breaks

All the news I need

Ninety percent chance of precipitation
while the rain begins to fall
and I'd like very much
in that moment
to be a meteorologist
who encourages people to tune in
to the sky
at six
and ten
and six again
and remind them
that when it looks like rain
it probably is
and that isn't such a bad thing
if you learn to forget your umbrella
and enjoy that illicit feeling
of arriving a mess
in puddle shoes
that squelch with each step
and gradually reduce the sanity
of those who would remain sane
remain removed
from the world around them
that cries
such wonderful tears
that spawn prismatic smiles
you could never find
on the weather report

It's dangerous to go alone

I'm checking my phone again

expecting a call

from someone who doesn't quite exist

expecting a text

with directions to find myself

expecting a life

I spend most days watching people

be people

and the important part of that

is it's plural

is the lack of definition for person

without relation

I know that I'm special

you're special

and without me you're nothing

and everything

and the undivided average

of a single term

What I'm trying to tell you

is important

what I'm trying to tell myself

is bullshit
because I'm telling myself
about loneliness

Gristle

I pick the bones clean
but leave the marrow
leave the last of the life
to decay naturally
in a landfill
somewhere

I make do with gristle
cartilaginous nonsense
that snaps
when I chew
and gives me an excuse
to floss

As I lay me down to sleep

This I pray
for the person I've passed
the past two weeks
on my way home from work
stretched out at midnight
on a cardboard bed
that gets tucked away come morning
come police
who bring with them laws
about where a person can sleep

This I pray
that their aversion to cardboard
doesn't equal my own
acquired after a month
in a repackaging plant
where I shucked off the shells
they've fashioned into slumber
till my hands chapped
and my mind
became just as dry

This I pray
because prayer absolves guilt
and compared to them
I've got it good
I've got this street corner
all staked out
where all the things I never wanted
sit around in cardboard boxes
that I'm afraid to get rid of
lest I lose my real home