Monday, April 29, 2013


I’m running
past the old school

so there’s Mark?
Joey’s friend
on the elementary
I’m running past,

maybe eleven, drawing
from a cigarette
he found. Joey’s watching him
and I’m
standing away plotting
how to save his life.

I act,
I won’t just stand by.

I bury the butt in tire chips.

my fingertips stink
like hot rubber.

I shake the memory
but not the smell.

and as I pass her house
I’m still in love with Staci Williams.
I still kiss the stream she drank.
I can still run by her house one night
I even crept into her
backyard but the windows were closed,
shades closed there was a black forest behind
me like a poem.

something about coming home, bicycles.
I thought these people neighbors,
they couldn’t
look stranger.

running through
beauty or close-by you want
to be honest for the sake of a butt
you remember when you keep forgetting the world,

17:01.3 or something; the exact time it took
to run down the hill and come back the same.
if you sat and watched you’d only
ever see me running downhill. 

Saturday, April 6, 2013


A seam wanders

your body over.

It rakes your neuroses.