the words catch in your throat
and you can’t seem to say the things you need to say
once you say them that’s it
and you can’t take the words back
no matter how bad they feel or how wrong they came out
and all you can manage to get out is that it won’t be pleasant
he tells you in his neighbor’s Guyanese accent that life can’t always be a bowl of cherries
and so you say nothing

In the realm of hungry ghosts

SUcker punch kisser
Rift in the middle
Of a one-hit wonder
Oh you lover biter motherfuxker
Paper bag puncher
Make me piece together love
Tell me you’re scared to live your life
Double hitter, double edged mister
Sword sometimes limp noodle
What would do it? Why did I do it?
Fall in love, on purpose,
With someone like you.

The Ideal Hum

Between A# and B, the neighbours sleep microtonality,
it's no difference if they sourced the plush of white noise
from the basement breaker or a fan made video stream loop:
the ideal eight hours or until the
breaker vibrates loose from the beam,
the child knocks out the laptop cord
with the flag pole from the vestibule.

PLANNING A GARDEN AT THE ALE HOUSE

The missiles roll out on TV.
Booie shows us his pint glass celery stalk.
Mel and the PBS square foot technique.

Garbage gardens, sunset, the boy on the tricycle 

who either needs to pee or cry.

The garden won’t be neat like Mel’s. 

I won’t be buried next to my mother father brother. 

The bread will have more skin than a crust –

unless we find the right river rock,  right squirt gun, 

right intuitive sense of readiness.  

At 5:30 the bar is dark-bright underwater feeling, 

like we’re in a sandwich while it’s being made.

We should really know more. 

Instead I talk about why I’m angry,

strawberry tattoos, why would you dissect the parts like that?

And how does your garden grow  

Booie sings like TV,  

then down-sells us more beer.

queue

A line
next to a line
growing longer
fall to pieces
and remember the back
in front
of you,
when the goods show
come all back together
and wait

Janus

Hair curling

curdling screams

that come, freely, out of my mouth

and rise into the air that gets taken,

rushed, and hurled upstream, far.

Til only my open mouth is left.

Dry. No noise. Wind in, wind out.

The water is tipped in ice

and the moon is shining warmth

on us all, like we’re rosy, not raw,

dew drops on a field; bribing us

not to feel the unending cold.