Slow Molting

When you have a big dream, for your life, the floors are never dusty of those rooms where the dream lives. Dust is composed almost entirely of dead skin cells and who carries their cumbersome bodies into the edges of their dreams? (Lovers).

When you watch me sweep the floors, does the dream end or does it begin? Or will we finally say something true like “I am so happy to be in pleasure with you in this dying body”?

I am so happy that these floorboards remind us of our constant flux, our process of slow molting. That we become new as we writhe or as we sit and sip coffee and talk about your Dad.

That the floorboards do not know who is who as one particle settles next to another. That we become one in our shared discard pile. That I can gently gather these fragments of who we were yesterday from the corners of this dream. That we all do gently gather these fragments, and assemble them into tiny mountains, and ladle those tiny mountains into soft vessels, and usher those irreverent urns towards a cement slab where they await some larger, carbon union via Le Canyon Artifice. That all of our neighbors do this. That we all do this on the same day. That we all parade from our doorways in intervals under guise of the mundane.


In the morning I walk
the shore covered
with shells,
some more broken
than others.

They arrive in troves-
after traveling long distances.

They arrive as if on holy pilgrimage,
as if with a prayer in their throats,
as if with a purpose.

They arrive-
after being in some perfect form for so long,
they arrive to return-
to be broken down again,
to become material.

To return to the mass
which minds the exact shape
of the place where others
will arrive tomorrow.

Dog with a bone

Sitting in the yard

a dog with a bone

she has drained

all of the marrow-

from the tectonic, calcium

plates, now brittle.

And the dog,

still narrows

her eyes, lowering

herself over the past,

guarding it with

her feverish growl as if

the promise of

more of what was

were a truth.

A list of shiny things that I can see

The disco ball at a roller skating rink, iridescent confetti streamers wrapped around the tree branches in my backyard, a wet pearl in an open shell, star, glass, my body in the sun, your body in the same sun, bodies of water in the same sun, a prism


Even when the people are asleepthe massive dance goes on.

Do you wish to hear it-
the tongue of the crows
who gather daily in ceremony,
discussing at length- the Otherworld?

More than to listen, but
to believe them.

know that they mind
the turning wheels
of giving and grieving, in this

Do you wish to taste it-
how the earth offers herselfto you?

How she offers you as well?

How you ripen and rot,
along with all fruiting bodies,
daily, lunarly, annually, and finally?

How small and vital.

Our River

Gathering on the front porch
with its paint peelingaged in the hot sun
we breathe in

One of us is cooking
something savory and deep
and the pleasant cat
curls itself at my feet

while I am sipping something
sweet and strong
(like all of us)

One of us is hanging linens on the line
One of us is floating naked in the river
One of us is upstairs making love
One of us is holding a baby on their hip
One of us is laughing
One of us is consoling
One of us is being consoled

In the evening we play music and
All of us dance
and in the morning
All of us are gathering blankets, books, and baskets of fruit for another day spent at the banks of our river


Muse existing is the object (she)
Object in space is form (soul and senses via the body)
Form contains function
(feeling and doing / speaking and listening)
Function is a catalyst(in having the ability to)
Catalyst is a change (to cause an effect)
Change proves time  (once this, now this, so there)
Time lives in observation (look, a thing in motion)
Observation becoming holy(oh, that body is sacred)
Sacred is the Gaze  (see, a holy thing in motion)
Gaze cast upon a Muse   (seeing as in uncovering)  
Muse becomes aware(I am being seen)
Awareness finds The Gazer(I see you seeing me)
The Gazer becomes the object(soul and senses via the body)
Object is the Muse existing(she)


In the morning at eight, Jim unlocks the gate to the cemetery down the street.

The trees in the cemetery are the largest in the neighborhood. They keep growing; they keep losing their old branches.

I gather the branches from the cemetery floor and place them in piles to be picked up.

I start to sweat. I start to use my legs. I go three times a week. Planet fitness.

I think so much about the word faggot. How this faggot is in here creating these bundles of sticks. How these faggots save me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

The trees in the cemetery are the largest in the neighborhood. They keep growing; they keep losing their old branches and I am thankful for that. I am thankful that each morning when I arrive, my job begins again.

I gather the branches from the cemetery floor and place them in piles to be picked up.

This is not work. This does not end. This is a relationship and it is just between us faggots.