I talk to me.

The scale tells me I am 17 pounds heavier,
than a year ago. And two years older.
I do not play guitar, very much.
I am not painting enough.

There is a tiny switchblade,
inside my gut.

My brain is making some plan,
but in secret, so I only
know that it is every excited,
and that is not enough information,
because my brain can get
very excited
for bad reasons.

From bones.

We stayed at a hotel, in a psychic town, that claimed
to be haunted, where once inside, we were all lulled
into immediate sleep, and I awoke, haunted by the
surety that I had wasted my life, and these words:
this is what a ghost is.

Finest kind.

If a knock came at the door,
selling finest whiskey, or, better,
yet, finest cigars, I would buy them.
All. Then.
Those. I suppose, in defiance,
of your shortsightedness.
I cannot tell you, tonight, this tonight,
this rainsome, lonely night,
how it feels, to spend such stretches
alone, because you know such solitude
only in adventure. Because you successfully
avoid this mute prolong. Perhaps you miss out,
perhaps I permit myself agony.
Perhaps, you are the kind to defy my wisdom.
Perhaps, I am the kind to throw it away.

Rain.

How oft I misremember.

I can.

Scarves.

They are not allowed to wear them outside.

April, come she will.

I stare at cloudless skies,
waiting for them to warm.

Rusty Perros.

If you were a woman,
and I was a man, and
you enjoyed kissing me,
holding my hand,
and laying in bed,
and making big plans, like,
where will we live
where we'll never know cold,
and let's stay together
until we are old,
and all of the years after that,
then,
I think that we should do that.