the end of august

autumn takes the last
of its luke-warm tongue
and warps it around
the soft seashell ear of summer.

if trees had eyes
september's breeze
would cause them
to roll back into the
forest's canopy. half appauled

by the pleasure, not knowing
what it could possibly mean
having been
seduced into letting go.

for each season without a lover
the heart finds new ways
to compinsate: a bottle of wine

and a good book, a hot bath
or a cold shower.

come spring, the woods give way
to wild flowers, and it starts
all over again. an ephemeral

race for beauty and grace, as your

chances for love close in around you.

CARVE MYSELF A DREAM

some nights i lie awake
and convince myself i'm fine.

that the breeze through
the metal screen is really comfort
calling me for sleep.

though knowing one thing
and pretending another
becomes a cut so fine and deep
it goes unnoticed
until infection.

maybe it's pride
that screams intelligence
is the only help we need.
maybe fooling the mind
enough times can actually
change its make up...to
renegotiate the truth.

but something is telling me
that i'm so very wrong.

that time has never really healed a wound,
just lent itself to getting used to.

the fact is, we're all of us
bleeding from somewhere ripe
trying desperately not to look down.

in the tiny corner of my room
the curtains swell
like giant lungs
then exhale across the bureau,

the book left open
next to the bed stand
has started reading
with a pair unseen hands,

the slightest breeze
which can turn a page stops,
then looks
for a place to keep going.

the night draws out;
a serrated edge on a blade

and i can't remember the last time
i'd met myself
and had something interesting to say.

in the soft quiet of my sheets,
i do the very first thing
that comes to mind, turning
my head ever so slightly,
closing my eyes,

and carve myself a dream.

...so i'm in rutland for the next two weeks before heading for my 7 month adventure in the wild, teaching young minds how to fall in love with the woods. dear god, i'm bored...i don't think i've watched this much tv in my life. it's a pretty damn good thing that there was a battlestar galactica marathon on before the brand spankin' new episode last night. of course, the sobriety doesn't really help. i feel like crawling out of my skin and clubbing someone over the head so that i can take over their body. i'm so bored that i just called my mom and asked her what she was doing..."big lots" she said. i said "what's a big lot?" she laughed and said that she'd call me back. i guess i deserve feeling like this, having put feeling anything at all on hold for years. a haven't gone a week without anything in a long, long, long, real long time...even my pee smells different...like it misses jack daniels and herion. shit bird, this sucks. but all will be well when i get to the woods once more. and my dad won't have to worry about why i'm sleeping for 18 hours a day. i think i'm in love with the chick from "everyday italian," she's got great boobies.

-m-a-t-t-

LIFE, LOVE, SHOPPING, AND SUNSHINE

the sun looks like a daughter
tugging on the back of her mother’s black skirt. one hand
holding tight, the other stretched out like the whole
world could end if she doesn’t get picked up and held.

I spend the morning walking towards the sunrise
as a way to digest the week and more
than anything it’s the calm I morn. and find it unsettling as
the darkness who clings to the greedy half-light of dawn.

I’ve always had this notion that I could fix my life
by over thinking it, that my mind could somehow
rationalize all the things that I’ve done wrong.

it’s one of those days in mid-january
where dead Christmas trees garnish the sidewalks, the
germen shepherd next door only stops when I start
barking back. the coffee shop on the corner percolates
patrons in and out on their way to meet mediocre people
in incredibly important places.

the year’s hottest fashions start to go on sale. and soon
you’ll see that pair of jeans marked down to forty-three
from one hundred and eighty-six.

you’ll shake your head and bite your lip
having bought it...but will do the same thing next year knowing
a moment is the only place to live. because

by that time you’ll forgotten the foresight that's important
for life and love and shopping. the sun will have finally
risen and a new day means a brand new chance

to fuck things all up again.

...when someone 'seems intriguing'...you should read their blog. because after that, it could go either way. i do find you cute though....and intriguing as well...and well, "cute" and "intriguing" can't be too bad a combo. i hope you continue through the long, drawn out, and sometime creepy archives though...they're worth it.

SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER

it's the purple dusk of summer
that's kept me around this long. the
phosphorescent warmth dripping down
one side of the inside of my skull and the sun
refusing to go to bed early. it's the scent
of freshly cut grass that's got me sticking
my head out the window of a moving car at night. the
sight of a thousand fireflies blurring in a field
while i'm speeding by. and the desire to get out
before slowing down. to tilt my head at the stars
who scatter like a giant monochromatic jackson pollack
across the sky. it's the being alone that keeps me warm
at night, as if the winter were kind enough to take pity.
self aware enough to wear my own faults like a blanket.
I don’t think that it’s too much to ask, to grab a hold
of the world with both hands, turn it upside down and squeeze
every last drop of life into my dry upturned mouth. to quench
this hidden thirst, as if all things boiled down to two simple
and very clear choices and i couldn't possibly exist
without making one: either say farewell to this tiny ball of dirt,
or fall madly in love with it forever.

FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME TOMORROW

-for kate


...maybe it's just
that time of year? you start
noticing the subtleties
of winter’s sun.

a friend
you've long but seen
starts home. that's what has

you sentimental...

the scent of cold.

even as a child
you can't remember, ever having

felt so scared. it's january,

you're still so very much in love
with someone you've never had
the chance to.

the rain
that's now turned to snow, causes
a blush so very pure and warm, that
it simply caters the blood
towards reminiscing. a blush

starting just below
the ear and then tickling
your clavicle. and it

decides, symbolically of course, to knit
a scarf made out of kisses, from one lobe
to another, the same way i used to.
not hard at all to remember

being so young at that time,

that all we
could possibly do was make mistakes, excelling
with blunders at one another's expense. learning

to simply miss a step
then to keep on dancing unless...

both of us became surprised
at how it came. so natural at falling
from impossible heights,

excited,
un amused,
enticed, and as if landing
wasn't necessary.

tonight,
i played your phone message twice...

to complement my imperfect evening,
by myself in the early morning, maybe
it was just
to hear your voice,
i used to tilt my head
to hear you breathing, this was that same
kind of thing...i just needed
something familiar.

to sleep next to something other
than my pillow.

obviously,
it's just that time of season, everything

falls in small deliberate flakes.

the streetlights type cast with reason,
the snow's decent make the sky ornate...and i still
believe that if i make a wish, that wish
has a chance
and might come true...

dear lord,

...please lift this sorrow

...so i could meet her for the first time,
for the very first time tomorrow.