the patterns do not change __ __ __ __  
they are misremembered __ __ __ __  
cool hand __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ 
separate heat __ __ __ __ __ __  

Be gentle don’t bump it I’ve got Andromeda centered 
In the viewfinder but it will already have shifted slightly 

Gliding its trillion stars and their moons in millimeters 
Behind the local legends painted ancient on the dome  

but ask me again how much 
I care about the other mouths 

that could call my name. 

We’d get home, and he’d go back to weaseling money out of Mom  
and squandering it on things that were smokable or fit in a syringe,  

on what wasn’t bread. The little money he made came from  
selling our family’s things: Mom’s jewelry, TV and VCR

swallows actin’ drunk 
swimmin’ overhead 
chasin’ each other ‘round 
like brand new lovers 
stumblin’ out the bar at 2 am 

I command subjects, turn math to English, history  
to lunch, govern teachers and students alike in  

my slow crawl through middle and high school 
periods.

We are all God’s little playthings. Or else why are we on a ball.

I had the goods, 
the lowdown, the skinny, 
the whole truth  
and nothing but. 
I was dangerously 
in the know.  

If you listen, really listen, their voices come back.  
They start to tell you about places you’ve  
never been, about things you want with  

a ferocity that scares you sometimes. They make 
sense. Sit with them on the couch and watch 
a movie you know is bad.

Only connect 
indeed. Dressed and buckled in 
like chefs or psychiatric patients,  
they shuffle and lunge. 

When I leave the woman who interviewed me
wraps me up in an embarrassingly long hug
then kisses both my cheeks like we’re starring
in a mob movie. I look for hidden cameras.  

Thou preparest a bed before me
in the presence of ineffable pleasures;
thou annointest my psalm with love’s oil of bitter herbs;
my smile withers up.

What if I had come to you  
instead of Dad that night, crying and afraid of myself?  

I went to Dad because he never told me not to hold  
my wrists like that.      

placed high and then low
sulking and eager

life
at odds with life

Nonpliable, creaking, aching to be grazed 

by the mouth of the man from the Mediterranean. 

He’s indecisive and belongs to another.  

It’s all wrong. 

We flipped around and there he was, his bleached Mohawk tamed by a grey Armani suit, he cheek-kissed us both, as if he knew who we were, then wrapped his famous arm around my waist and pranced us in like we were super models, guiding us into the living room where his very pregnant partner, Perri Lister, serenaded guests dressed exactly like us, as they nibbled chocolate chip cookies, sipped milk, and bounced toddlers on their laps.

A wedding bouquet of heavy rain, honeyed hatred and wasabi almonds. 
Dandelion hands over a roaring campfire, too afraid to touch 
Your house-of-cards heart and anvil of expectations

I can sense the distance between us.  

A distance beyond geographical measurement,  
but as small as the last drawn-out letter of a whisper.