we are most alive in dreams

Lucky numbers only work if
you believe in nothing, and I am
a man that has empty plans
for a future that has, locked
windows and a breath the color
of midnight.

Poison is the simple pleasure
taken when ashtrays full of teeth,
can’t keep to themselves, flopping
upon rusted decks and I’ve shaved
my head once again- It was slightly
wet, and the blades dull, but the pain
cut away was worth the wait.

It’s the change. The dissection
of memories from the roots, like
the rings on the inside of a tree.

Here is where you lied, here:
a moment spent thinking and
it’s all played out sprouting
from our scalps.

I can never tell
if you are smiling
or growling, but
somehow
I always feel
that throat in
the bones of my feet
and I vibrate apart.

The muscles and
the sinew stretching
in, to meet the pitch
of vocal chord
discontent.

And you moan the name
I was given, carefully
in my ear and
the moment your hips
stop, I wish my hearing
would catch a disease.

Because it’s the moan,
that keeps me on my knees.

We drove through the night,
empty gas stations
splitting at the seams.
And so it seems-
that it would go on like that
until the deep south,
has us by the teeth.

Cobblestone streets,
lamps and liquor and smoke
filling our eyes with wraiths
and ghosts: The fire, that
burned off his shirt, cast aside
by the shrine of the dead
voodoo, coursing through
our veins-
                 Chicken blood and bones.
                 Cursed water and stones.

And now I fear,
that things will never
be the same.

We are cursed men,
walking amongst the dead.

All around, there are
scraps of paper and
post-it notes. Scribbles,
full of sentences
that wish to make me
a better man:

Buy a toothbrush with
stiff bristles, for wiping away
the lies told on any given day.

Borrow a handful of nails
from next door, to mend
the pickets on a broken fence.

Clean up the backseat. Trash,
and the clothing not belonging
to me has piled up so high,
that it’s hard to see out of
the back window- It’s just,
memories of those I’ve left behind.

And the notes are always
illegible. Too slanted or
backwards to read.

So I gather them to build
a fire, thinking maybe this
is the only man I’m meant to be.

I’ve been talking to myself
about space. How it looks,
when the sun is still awake
or how it feels, when pavement
hisses and car engines leak
from the highway, miles
away from my ears but still
inside, my bedroom.

It’s not something that I always
understand, but I know enough
to keep my mouth shut when
the stars ask, for an opinion.

It’s a courtesy reserved for
royalty and demi-gods, lost
family and buried pets,
grade-A students and chipped flags.

Other planets watch us and
we watch television, locked
in our couches: waxed lashes
that breathe like gills. Who,
in their coffin asks Jupiter
and Saturn to give away the
secrets that only Nostradamus
took with him?

Think like the hungry
and bathe with stardust.

What if the space
in which we breathe
is just radio signals,
full of static and
the lost voices of
children? Recorded,
with sheep skin
diaphragm microphones
and tin can receivers,
through walls made
from old newspaper,
daffodil yellow and
held together with spit.

We lay awake at night
and our sleep has dreams:
Cold war tactics and
missile bunkers holding
old bones and acid rain.

The slaves we hold close
listen to our midnight whispers,
the easy listening lingers on secrets.

I bet I could slip
into a conspiracy theory
like water into whiskey,
the way our
forefathers did, before
our single cells collided
into galaxies and first breaths.

This is the hardest
you’ve ever coughed
and I don’t know what to say.

Blood looks perfect
on your marble hands,
dotted with imperfection:
chips and scrapes
from the fallen man
with broken wings, who
chiseled your eyes,
separated two lips from
the teeth and placed cavities
in the cheeks.

“Hold me close,” and
I remember now why I left.

It started with a kiss, met
with three lies, ended with
the rocks at the bottom
of the river bed, and
somehow we’ve come together
under one more sky.

But, my list grows longer
than the horizon can linger
with a soft glow and this road
won’t stay warm forever.

Three liters of water
with a pack of cigarettes
too many and somehow,
this sounds right.

Feels right.
Looks right.

Black lungs, and
one more night of
changing channels until
the open window,
chills me to sleep.

I do not have
peace of mind, nor
a piece of mine
left to give. And,
negotiating with
the ghosts that swing
from the chandeliers
in my rib cage, won’t
untwist my tongue or
save me from another headache.

I am a manufactured
single serving loss of words.
Hot to the touch and
ready for the long dreams,
with empty reams of
paper without lines.

Feels right.
Looks right.

Stacked rungs: ladders,
of commercial timers
begging my eyes to
stop staring,
at the dotted ceiling.