Husbandry

all the rustling
and the condescending tones
that say "you only think of yourself"
it's true, i probably do
and there are no "buts"
or opposing conjunctions
to steer this into a new direction
justifying my position as a good husband
or man, i know what you really think
you're staying with me
because of a necessity to build a home
but you don't want to build it with me
just a shadow of the man that i've sold you
and you bought it all those years ago
over the phone, when you were lonely
hell, i was too
i love you anyway
even if my life is a lie
and you never truly know
who i really am

Invisible Ghost

there's almost nothing i miss about that old world
nothing at all

it's like a tooth ache from which i'm far removed
the pain used to be bitter and deep
but now these bones remain unaffected
by the wailing and grief that came with living
i am unequivocally blessed by the distance

but sometimes i wake up in a frenzy
tossing and turning at the thought
of who i have become
and who i can no longer be
these two men crash into one another
and this great collision has remade me

in a word, and in a reckless deed
i make and remake myself
over and over again
until the one gives way to the other
and becomes eternally free

from the bondage of a fiction
that i sometimes cannot ignore
as it is supposed to seem real
even in the suffering
but it never does

especially when i am on my knees
and i speak passive and strong words
to this invisible ghost
who is supposed to be Lord

but i just don't understand
what he's trying to do
or if he can do anything

now, i just wake up
day in and day out
and accept this painstaking fate
that this invisible ghost
has laid before me

and with no choice of my own
i lay to rest myself
and my life and my ideas
for some ghost i've never met

or known--no i have not really known
him, but visible men who who will
speak on his behalf will tell me all about him
and that a book is inherently true

but i just can't swallow these
unjust words
because i grieve for the fear
that my gut has been right all along
and that i cannot know
one way or the other
if this invisible ghost
will ever be made visible
to me, after i stop breathing

Drunken Poetry and Old Ugly Bones in a Capsized Dawn

like a baby in the vagina of the sun
i have given up much to be still
you old rag, you have washed me
the blood from my finger tips
and the old ghost in my heart
that creeps slowly through the dark
into my nostrils, to keep my breathing
with lungs of darkness, inhaling the despair
and calling it love