Let’s leave this airport behind. Stink of jet fuel, fuss
of stuffed bag sticking out their tongues. I never want
to travel like that again. There are hidden tunnels
in the extra cones of my eyes, hued the non-color of dreams.

Science gives us breath without breath, the beating of
oxygen inside our cells without a hitch. There is a moon
that calls my name every night while I sleep. I’m building
a ladder of maybes, each step a rickety release.

I want to go to the place where glass igloos sit in snow,
inviting the stars to view the constellations of my moles
through the clear curves. Outside, snow angels could
sing their songs, feather to feather.

My fingers search the cracks of this existence
for some promise. The arched understanding
of how our love opens all doors makes it harder.
But here it is, wide as a mouth to fall into.

If I step through, if I fall, will you not catch me?
Will you stand back on the stone, arms crossed,
glasses pushed to the peak of your head. Will you
trust me hard enough to believe how well I fly?


Palm Reading

Image taken with iPhone in Florence.
Words written at the coffee shop, between novel scenes.
Ears On the women having a conversation next to me about their Busy Bee business.
Time Taken six minutes.
Brain On bacon. And blow jobs. Clearly I need salt today.

This entry was published on June 28, 2012 at 10:29 am and is filed under June, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

3 thoughts on “[155]

  1. There was this path we took,
    midway through our escape
    that walked on stilts and licked our underfeet
    with duckwater tongues.

    I laughed at the decay
    reading the pier with nostalgic fingers
    and hearing the long-quiet boat bells
    still echoing echoing
    in the corners of this dreamway door

    but you were already miles away
    feasting with bright teeth
    on snow that fell on emperors
    centuries long-dead,
    offering up your breast
    and its sanskrit of skin
    as a story for the sky

    Your posts consistently inspire me, so hopefully this will suffice as a small token of thanks for months of usufruct.

  2. Wow. What a lovely response and poem. Thank you for making my day!

    All the best, s.

  3. i can merely echo and enjoy

    “I’m building
    a ladder of maybes, each step a rickety release.”

    And do you eat the bacon before the blow job?

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