Bubushka.

Sodapop returned, from the places he goes
when we leave him to the roaming, bloodied,
ear ripped and dime-size gash on elbow,
and, like when Grizzle's cheek pretty much
fell off, my heart did it's little dive thing,
the one it reserves for such moments, and,
of course, fattened now as he is, both hims,
on honey-salmon and such super rico treats,
but of course, he, they, we, are fine.

Family, yo.

K.M.M.

Little, quiet
graffiti talks,
very much,
the loudest.
The surety,
I've only now,
found.

E.

The cool parts are all you.

For real, for real.

Really, I can't hardly remember
what the fracas was all about,
just that my feelings felt jilted,
again,
and that my fuse was so stupidly,
um,
shortened,
and that, in dawn's glimpsing,
your sweet face seemed, well,
impossibly small and porcelain,
and beautiful.

And that maybe me walking away from
everything seemed so easy or hobo or silly
and how all of those things could be,
or were,
two different things.

Easy.


I don't want to be all the other folks.
I want to be us.
The real us, superheroes,
Rusty Perros,
big shots around the orange monkey.
And the gray one.
And the calico.

Right?

Because, my love,
if you will airplane me,
then I will carry you around on wicker chair,
like braggart, like celebrator,
alive and happy;
and when you are in other rooms,
I will confide in my own heart,
in loud whisper,
that you are,
(and here,
I will have to speak,
in hushed tones, heart language,
but,
that you are,)
really,
the best thing,
ever.

Alone, tonight, the new
studio, paired interestingly enough,
with broken phone, affords me
the alone minutes,
which I spend,
planning my way
back to you.

We.

Are family.

Keepers, we.

You were my summer love,
and now that fall has come,
I know,
this falling is the kind
that never let's you go.
So,
when the winter comes,
and the wind begins to blow,
and I will hold you close,
inside a winter coat,
that's big enough,
to hold us both,
and I,
will keep us
from the cold.

Railings and chairs.

I am painting the porch railing, and I
have painted
all our chairs, for you,
and I, painted them
in pinks and greens,
smiling at how we
would paint
the porch floor
blue.

And, I hope it is okay,
for me to say,
so,
I like the colors,
better, this way.
And though our robot may
be painted silver,
or gold,
nothing will be
gray.

Sodancer.

I stack them paintings,
sill-high, that the little
family might enjoy the view,
from the three front windows,
of 427.

I see,
an osprey.

Show and tell.

The show was attended well,
if not by many,
because it was not,
but by the caliber of friend
who came.

They told me:
These are the paintings
of a happy man.

Like holding.

Right on.

Like breathing.

We nourish.

Sunday.

Hmph. The phone rang, only twice.
An area code I don't know, and I
hoped, of course, that it was you.
And I answered, and noone was there.
I'm tired of not being able to call you.
I 'm tired of my slow motion studio.
I want to run away from you and everybody else.
As if that would cure my lonely ache.

Pedaling alone into the dumb sunset.

Let the flowering begin.

Today begins another round,
of blooming. I mean, I begin
to paint again.

Full Moon Kiss.

In a little room, in an old hotel,
where I had stayed, till I got well,
till winter's sun, had come and gone,
until my bones were strong enough,
to carry me home, I opened up a window,
and slipped into the dawn.

For many miles, and many more,
I walked until I reached the shore,
where penniless, where tired and sore,
I tied together branches,
threw myself into the ocean's roar.

I threw myself into the ocean's roar.

In a homemade boat, on the open sea,
with no northern star to guide me,
in blinding rain, and driving wind,
my only thought, that I might live,
the day.
Or make it to your front door,
anyway.

That I might,
find you again.

That you might,
invite me in.

Duro.

And I will miss,
your pretty face.
I'll play our old tapes,
on the radio.
I will hold you,
while you are away.
Just so.
I just needed you,
and I just needed you
to know.

Two.

Bus ride to Brooklyn.
Life has been unstoppable.
I tire not,
the embracing.

Heavenly things.

I wade into sparking waters.

Brisket.

Un pedazo cortado de mí.

O.K.

I do not know what you want.
I can charm my way around it,
all the days, but not today.
And maybe not tonight,
although even as I write this
I can feel myself folding inside,
keening, pining, reaching,
if only to press my leg to yours.

Y su refleja.

Everything, is like
a photograph
to me now.
A postcard hobo,
going south.
And all his shivering
finally turning,
from the cold.

And this sun,
it has come ashore.
This sun,
is better than before.
And all it's glittering,
finally turning,

gold.

These K.B. Days.

Cuqui:

You will find, if perhaps you come to
know me, how I like the shiny things.
I did not know, myself,
how much I like balloons.

I feel, in these past some days,
so suddenly full in your company,
as though I might, weightless,
lift feet from the ground, and away.

I thought, to give them to you.
Thought, again, that maybe I am,
already, a little too much for you.

Last night, when you shifted,
and laid your head
upon my chest,
I smiled into the dark.
My heart was a mylar balloon,
dancing asparkle,
and tied to my wrist,
for safekeeping.

Don't nobody know me.

Me and Buddy,
bought the gun today.
That old rosewood handled
thirty eight.

And I said it was okay,
when the man there said,
son, this gun won't shoot
but once.

Ginger, and friend.

She had mentioned, in our talking,
a drink, a whiskey ginger, that she
had had, at a place, I don't remember
where, and I thought, well, and I invited
her, after procuring the things, the most
choicest of organic ginger, (what? bulbs?),
and organic ginger ale, and, of course,
Evan, Green, and anyway, I did the inviting,
and the invitation was accepted, and she
came, and the tools I had were all wrong
for extracting the juices from the ginger,
(root, the root), and then I put in too much
ginger ale, way too much, even though
we had said we both hated that sort of
heavy handedness, and I was flustered,
but I played it off, because I was so glad for
the company, and we sat in the grass,
under the christmas lights I had strung
along the clothes line, and we talked,
and the gentle wind off the river,
and the baby cherries on the cherry tree,
and a Chesire moon,
and a pretty girl
is my new friend.

By the by.

Thank you, for the giving,
that you gave to us.
Thank you, for the living,
that we have done.
Thank you, for the happiness,
that you made for us.

Thank you, for all the funny things,
you have done.

Oh, yeah: you have been a good friend.
You know, there ain't too many good friends around.

And if I ever caused you pain,
if I ever caused you trouble,
well,
it don't matter now.

Holding on.

G:

Life, I feel more certainly,
as the years flutter by,
is hilarious.

Right? Can't I say that?
Haven't I earned, at least,
those stripes?

Painting, again, even in tiny strokes,
has already improved my outlook,
as it tends to do,
even as the prospects of friendship
have turned my head, ironically,
to mush.

It seems as though outside hands,
from places both secured and surprising,
work in strange concert,
to hold my pink heart aloft.

Sometimes gratitude,
is all I know.
How could that be wrong?
Right?
Please,
keep with the holding.
I, for one, am holding on.

Always,
me.

P.S. I know you think it feeds my ego,
but tell me, for a hot minute,
that I am super-good, at something.

April Eleventh.

My mom's birthday.
I love you with
all my heart,
mom.

Continuer.

Life is sometimes,
my favorite thing.

Little bit.

I had forgotten, in our laughing,
I had meant to tell you,
in the same instant
that I touched your arm,
to remind me that you are real,
that this week was the best week,
and thank you, but instead,
I held onto your arm,
laughing.

So now, in my remembering,
thank you.

Sometimes more often.

There are the times,
sometimes more often,
than maybe I might say,
pretending to be asleep,
alone in the house, yet,
pretending to be asleep,
and, you know, the eye,
oblivious to the sometimes
torment, of the heart,
the eye flutters open, and,
with the fluttering open,
reminding all the parts,
well, of course, the heart, part,
mostly, but really, all,
all of the body parts,
reminding them all, in some,
what would you say,using my
words, in fragile mockery,
that I would say, say,:
in some softly horrible moment,
something I'd say, it is,
all dramatic like I do,
I don't know, I mean I do,
always thinking like that,
silly, over-sensitive, but,
but back to the eye,
opening, opening,
reminding everything,
and nobody,
but me, that,
yes,the world,
is still here.

I.

Dearest I.,

Would you be so mad, and I feel certain you would,
if I just left, mysterious-like, no announcement,
no dragged out days to cry and say goodbye and are-
you-sure and all the rest, just one day I was gone
and my stuff gone God knows where, the cats I don't
know, although you would know they were somewhere
where they were happy, paintings left I guess, to some
gallery, maybe with deposit slips taped to their backs,
and a box, perhaps, with the most personal of things, left
on your back porch, would that make you saddest, or really,
maddest, the gall of my leaving, compounded by a box of half
memories, left to discover only after I had boarded some
train to nowhere? To somewhere out there?

Would postcards help, mailed, and then mailed again, from
somewhere else, disguising my secret hold-up, if they promised
that I was doing well, if even it seemed, because you know me,
that most likely I was not, because happy people, or even
people doing well, don't disappear into the night, but
even if I promised, and maybe related a happy instance,
or something that had happened in my new place that seemed
breezily pleasant, or like the kind of thing that would
happen to someone whose life was at least passably okay,
even though, as I think of it now, and knowing me, like
you do, that the postcards would become infrequent, or
always were, and then probably they would fade away
altogether?

I imagine my name from your mouth, and your lips would, for
a second, twist into sadness, but then by the end of my name,
would be twisted into, I think, more of a sneer, or at least some
shape where even a stranger could tell there was something afoul,
though I'm sure afoul would not be how you would describe it,
or me, I mean, of course for the leaving, but also for the
secretiveness, the finality of it, the unfairness that no one,
you most of all, had a chance to put in some vote, or to raise
some objection, to a plan, I'm sure, because I know you, too,
you would find stupid, and selfish, and mean. Would the mad,
the mad you felt, because I guess it would, taint the everything
else? Would you be more mad at the tainting, or at me?

Would you take my side, at least, wouldn't you, when it would come
up, at a party, or somewhere else inappropriate, and folks wouldn't
seem as fazed, or maybe they would come across as, or be, completely
unaffected, would you then, in those moments, ally you with me, maybe
see me, for those brief moments, as, if not heroic, or righteous,
because probably you would not, but sympathetic, or maybe, in a
piteous way, understandable? Could I ever seem understandable?

I mean, I., I am only asking, is all.

I am only asking.

Love, me.

Osh Kosh.

In search of something else,
an old photo album falls from shelves.
Photos of thirty-seven years.
I remove, maybe, ten.
Photos, I mean, I guess,
not years.

Although really, I may mean years,
after all.

I throw the rest into the trash.

The thought of so many memories,
laying, filthy, in a landfill,
is exhilarating,
in a nauseous, spiraling,
kind of way.

Goodnight, little girls.

Here, then, is a song of chance,
of rock and roll, and real romance.
And oh,
the way your heart pumps harder,
when you dance.

These past few days have found me dressed in preview,
summer's pinks and khakis, inappropriate to season,
and, in few days time to be laid back in tomorrow box,
with knowing nods, and see you soons.

My guitar plays louder and faster these days,
drowning, finally, the barbs still hurled,
by lovers lost.

My hi-road shoes tap dance on top of your
jejune jerking, ladies! My wizened eyes smile,
it's okay! Fill your hearts!

For so will I!

I have learned to see the sun, through even
grayest of clouded sky.

I love you, fireball, me and moon, we are
your mirror, your faithful friend.

Thanky.

Sunset.

Bourbon.

Sunrise.

Coffee.

And night.

Because I don't eat.
Because I can't sleep.
And oh, how I drink!
It just makes me think,
that I'll die.

But I don't.

And I will.
But I won't,
right now.

Oh, Lord,
won't you just
drive me home?

Plans for the day.

Open windows.
Play piano.

N.

Badass, and my friend.

Okay.

There are beautiful,
and, happy making,
days ahead.

Thank you, sisters.

Thank you, family.
Thank you, friends,
new and old.

Thank you,
A.

Thank you,
N., forever,
B.,
T.

Thank you,
K.,
K.,
C.,
Mrs. L.

Thank you,
women.

Thank you,
depression and hope,
in equal parts.
Thank you, God,
whoever you are.
Thank you,
hands and eyes.
Thank you,
heart.
Thank you, fear,
and courage.
Thank you,
tears.

I am riding this one,
down, to the end of the line.

B.

Like thunder, like the laughing of children,
we rolled down grass hill, the whiskey,
the cold, numbing our skin to the burs
that clung to our palms and fingers.

Lie down in gravel roads.
Moon illuminate our happy scratches.

We are in the club
of us.

Forever, you remind me,
put body to grass,
roll down hills.

And I'm so glad you are doing better.

And someday I will
see you there.
And you will know me,
by my head held high,
and on my arm
the scarlet letter,
that I will wear.

The Sun Also Rises.

Today, sweet today,
I began again.

Blown out candles.

Today, I am thirty and seven years.

I have made, and drunk, cups of espresso,
eating the chocolate left on my front step
by a sweet friend.

I stood under scalding water until God in my
ear said, let's go, Buddy.

I mount my bicycle. The sun says hi.

The weather report said cloudy, cold: it was not.
God, for my favorite present, gave me sunshine.
My sister stayed at my side the whole day.

Friends called and talked for hours.
The piano open. Guitar.

Whiskey poured into me.

Beautiful girls gave me scarves,
flowers. Hugs and dancing.
Whiskeys.

Dancing.
Dancing.

Bike home to warm cats.
Kisses.

Birthday, thank you.

The healing things.

I've begun to eat again,
and to paint, and draw,
and write songs.
Dance.

On the mend.

They learn to fly.

Now that I've transformed myself,
into a baby bird: perhaps,
it is time, to stop.

My shoulder, God.

Beside me,
Remind me,
That I'll be,
Okay.

Survival.

How I move on.

Beholder.

Sometimes, like now, when I feel like my emotions
are unbearable, I stop eating. Or rather, I eat in
tiny, rigidly enforced taste portions.

Like, a spoonful of cold beans every two hours.
In between I drink apple cider vinegar, lots
of tea, and an occasional beer.
Or beers.

I lose rapid wait, and my short term memory
begins to fail, immediately.
So, thusly, I feel like, well, win-win.

I can't remember what is causing me such
fucking heartache. And as I lay in bed at
night, starving, I run my hands over my
ribs, and feel beautiful.

Locked out.

Me.

Winter, downturn.

Because, I was happy. I just forgot that it was okay to feel that way.

January morning, haiku.

Cold, my wood bones shake.
Sunshine, my only saviour,
I hold to your wake.