worse for the wear

this is the poem i don’t want to write.

this is the poem that is not beautiful.


or maybe it is,

because it is true.


the truth is,

i wish she were worse for you.


the truth is,

i wish she would just disappear.


i wish she were not so much like me.

it would be easier to hate her.


for both

of us.


the truth is,

she is good for you.


the truth is,

she is better for you


than i

would be.


i try to woo you with

my words, mystery,





but the truth is,

i’ve never had a healthy



it feeds the


poetry, but not

the living.


the truth is,

if she disappeared


tomorrow, i would not

know what to do.


i would probably

cry for you.


and then

for me.


i am the one who

should disappear.


i am the one who

is worse for the wear.







summer of the painting

i want to live in a

light house.





these wrinkles

and lines need


something to open

and close


with a light



you have the



you are starting

to believe it.


you are starting to

love your self





a solitary wing

with its lantern


pair flapping in the



a flickering




the seasons;


a window;

a wind—


to speak through

and in and on


and on

and anon.


Song of the Wayland, Anselm Kiefer



i think i missed you

we wake

to create;


we carry some-

thing from the


night: thick

on us, in us—


a thousand stories deep

as the crow flies.


we were meant

to meet there,


you and i—



i think i

missed you.


i think we are

living the before.




this is my body,

broken for you,


like in the



we are here

to make some-


thing new:

but we know


it has all been done

under the heavy static


of sun. we traverse the

taverns, ear to the ground


for a philistine,

a dervish,


something royal

to stir us up.


we become the swine

digging in the pearls;


it is our



we sit on the dock

and wait; we believe


something is on its

way—a ship, a revolution,


a stay; a drunken glacier

swaying toward us with glee:


to allay our fears, our need,

our repeat existence.