Uber

extreme kind driving

aimless in Texas. sand

in the cracks of the seats. sand

in the soles of his shoes. sand

in the whites of his eyes.

There was not much white

to find. Red veins like

red dirt roads sprawling sclera.

Pupils pulsing, darting from

white wall

to alarm clock

to pile of vomit on the linoleum floor.

a homecoming. a black suit. a best friend

already in the ground. 

Funeral

For three long weeks

my grandmother’s mother screamed

at night because she thought she was swallowing

her teeth and because she believed

in hell.

I do not remember her

eyes open, but I remember the

way the cool white skin of her arm

felt on my clammy fingers as I knelt

next to her, trying to look sad

(not scared)

right before the older

cousins took me upstairs and taught

me how to play hold ‘em.

I first knew I would die

three hours later

in an On-Tap in Medina

watching popcorn fall out

of my uncles hand and onto

the floor like a rose

into a hole. Not sure

if the tears

in my eyes were

for her, or

for me.

(fir/la)st

Stadium lights hum

songs from far

away, like dancing after dinner,

falling forward, a black

eye, the ottoman.

I can

see Michael running

backwards. I can

feel his blood under my

fingernails. I can

wash it, but there is always

red.

I spin

or rather, everything else

spins. The stadium 400

yards away. The incessant

ticking of a wrist watch,

unattached sitting on

the bench next to the creek

bed.

Cheer’s led by

Go

pretty girls who

Fight

are the same age as I was

Win

the first time my brain betrayed me.

I wade into

the water. Whistles

echo off the field,

around the trees,

inside my ears.

My boots are filling.

Motel Nativity Scene

Motel Nativity Scene

A bald headed girl sits driver-side, bored of waiting rooms,

watching paint curdle and flake, bits of words falling

like snow, off of an illegible

plywood sign. A neon light which

reads “ O Vacancy” buzzes in the window.

It kicks inside her and she remembers how

the first thing she thought of was how the the fresh ink that

curved around her bellybutton would stretch and how

the first thing he thought of was how fast he could get

four hundred thirty seven dollars and if there was tax

on things like that. She had been here before. But she did not notice

 the plywood,rotting, She did not hear the sign buzz, “A classy

place, because we are going to remember this forever”  His voice was

soft and convincing, like his skin as it pressed against hers. The same voice

she hadn’t heard, the same skin she hadn’t felt, since she told him

the things that the pastor said, “You’re so young” and “You know that is

a sin” and “Everything that happens in this world happens

at the time God chooses.” He and God must have disagreed

on that. So she carried it away. Away from Herod in a grease

stained wife beater, with a temper to match. There would be

no star to guide her and she had never met a wise

man in her life. He seemed wise once

when he used to run his hands through her hair. Hair she left in a pile

on her sister’s kitchen floor, so that she could see

where she was going and get his feel off of her head.

A bald headed girl sits driver-side, looking down at her stomach

peeking out of her shirt, his name sprawled there

warped and barely legible.

Two weeks overdue/One month after the fact

It is not cold metal, but there is

a weight sitting in the middle of the room

pushing down on the frayed grey carpet

in your bedroom, pulling down

the small twin bed we squeeze in,

A sinkhole sinking

on and on.

Wet black marks on the grey

pillowcase. The two of us (a possible

third) sink in silence, knotted organs

tightening with every white, dry day.

Sinking from crust to core

from night to day

from home to home.

The date on my watch

has not changed in

what feels like weeks (time

moves slower when you are

sinking). The second hand

ticks in place of drips.

Sinking, waiting for

the bloody (or the) carnage.

A-FIb

They drilled six holes

into you and deflated your lungs.

Strong lungs. The lungs of a man

who quit smoking when he was twenty-two and ran

on the elliptical for an hour every day

before work. They drilled six holes

into you and I watched you fall

for the first time. Eyes adjusted to that machine glow.

Watching P-Waves  grow short and then tall, not even knowing

what P-waves are. That was the first time I saw you fall.

I would see more than I cared to that summer. Your bare ass

hanging out of a hospital gown, Your hands shaking

as they carried you out on a stretcher, the time

you could only make it up three stairs.

There was blood inside of you. Not where

it was supposed to be, but somewhere

in the middle. So I listened to Tunnel of Love. I remember

when I told you I hated Tunnel of Love. You said you loved

Tunnel of Love. So I listened to Tunnel of Love on the way home

and I cried. The way you cried

when you apologized, as if you could have done anything

about anything. It’s weird to see your hero

cry. Even weirder to hear your hero

died. If only for a second until

they shocked him back to life.

So I sat with you. The way you sat with me

in all those waiting rooms, every two years

when our family would get a little bigger. The way you sat with me

in a sold out Conseco Fieldhouse while we sang every

word and laughed at the drunk girl in front of us

throwing up in the aisle. The way you sat with me

in the car that day they showed that suicide

prevention video at school and you picked

me up because I couldn't stop my hands

from shaking. You sat with me.

So I sat with you.

I watched you fall the summer

before my senior year. Then I saw you

rise. Your hands

trembling. Your heart

racing. Your legs

shaking. But standing.

I watched you rise the winter

I interviewed for my first job. I watched

you rise. and I rose with you. The way

you've always risen for me.

Sitting In The Meeting on the 1st Floor

The automatic hospital doors groan

revealing wasted eyes

landing on me

where I sit on my hands

in the waiting room. I can smell

the news on his breath.

He has been leaning

on a menthol kiss

in the parking lot. It is

the one thing

keeping him off

the floor.

Derby

Leading Lady falls

while we are watching from the infield.

Drinking dirt julips in strangers suits and ties.

Grace is crying. The ladies with the birds

on their heads would always get more attention

from the mud faced man. The one that she loves.

Covered in dust and cigar ash. That must have fallen down

from the box seats with the rain. Only cigarettes breathe down here.

Piles of white tickets, clutched and then forgotten

with the flash of a bulb. Black numbers adding up to

bus fare at best.

Melt

He was off

going 45 on the freeway

Not fast, but faster than you

You, at the door.

You, a glacier.

His tongue once reached

towards you, and stuck.

But he was not prepared

for your long winter. He pulled hard

heard the pop, smelled the blood.

Spitting red and choking

on taste buds.

You floated up the stairs

You, warm and beginning to melt down

the drain. You dripped.

He drove.

Not fast, but faster than you.

You in the tub

You, a pool

His tongue flopping

like a fish.

From a Brown Street Bathroom

A dreamcatcher floats

in a piss stained bowl. It did not catch my dreams

but it caught. Love

with no consequences. No 437 dollars.

I need to flush.

Instead I am craning my neck, so that I can see

myself in the mirror without standing up. Because I can hear

the band without getting off my couch. I can lock the door, say goodbye

without opening my mouth. But I cannot seem to pull the trigger.

Walk back down the seven mile hallway, past Bill’s smoke

cloud wall or Megan’s moans, to climb into a bed

covered in torn down posters from the seventh

grade, ripped and wrinkled, pull them over my head.

Put the period back in its place.