To make pictures from,

these pebbles in the order

I feel. Hours in the sun,

mom cries, pulling

at her air, where

is your father? I know,

I saw his face filling

with blood–

with stones moves

my voice. Listen.

The bearded man, he tries

to tear out my emotions,

how are we today? I watch

the clouds, how they would look

in stone. I throw up

in the bathroom, remembering.

Grey is safe, my heart

is black and red.

I kneel, drool spilling from my mouth,

see the hollows of my eyes in the water.

I stand, break the mirror, rocks are

my fists. Listen.

The nurses they come, mom watching

her TV, stuffing the phoneline with her tears.

All the drugs make me distant.

Where is your father? He is dead,

I scream, Dead.

I throw stones at the sky,

listen to them fall like rain in the trees,

like bullets, like blood.

Lines In The Concrete

I graze my tongue among the cracks on the floor like braille;

I love the jagged experience of chaos. New suns spring past

the window, pitching shadow bars across the concrete. Cards? the guards

sometimes ask, hunger in their eyes for escape. No, today the ants have moved

right here the dirt and it is changing, yes. Pavement wrinkles

like water–bugs fitting their transit to its ruptures–

and I sit–for twenty years I observe–like an alien–the light running by

in rectangles—ashes and dust and grime shifting –my mouth growing

dry behind my beard. How I breathe to understand the life that breaks

beneath my feet! And still I have no roots. And still my mind

wanders–even as these sordid sensations make me hard.

You Taught Me How To Eat

You taught me how to eat

by growing me to hunger.

You drifted by, fins spread,

until I was man enough to frighten you.

fishing fingers,

crossing mouths,

we have broken apart,

and now you are gone.

You split in the rebirth of a sun.

I reeled on the beach of time,

swollen with new breath.

I chased your memory with wine.

Now I walk the earth

as god swam the sea.

I loved one fish

to feed myself.