1Hundred

looking into a mirror is an illusion, i think,

because my eyes don’t fall just so on

the left and the right side of my nose

and i think sometimes i see my ears

jutting out too far behind my head -

i think i look too much like you 

used to, with blood dripping, leaving

trails right down the length of your chin,

because beneath the afterglows of dimmed lights

every once in a while, the mirror 

behind me shows me how far behind

myself i can go and i watch myself

becoming all things to everybody and

little things to no one else.

i thought we could sit on these scales

for a while and see how far we could 

rise and fall, and maybe make a see-saw

out of our lives because you know i really

like to keep my feet on the ground.

and you wanted to fly and dangle

your feet, perched from branches

suspended, falling, in the sky, but 

who’s to say that golden scales

and metal see-saws have no alchemy

between them, or that grounded

feet aren’t just standing in the middle

of a cage anyway?

it’s just a weird day, i’ve decided,

because i know i saw the snow

fall slowly in July, or maybe that

was my mind standing somewhere

in Australia, or i’d been made to

come back into the middle of hailstorms,

and then Billy told me that he

shoveled a path down the driveway,

with the Buddha, so you could walk

into my home and twirl a glass of brandy

and lean back into my sofa and cross

your legs, one hanging over the 

other, trying to wake your foot fallen asleep.

isn’t it funny that

when i closed my eyes

the world wouldn’t 

go away and when

i tried to let go, my hands

wouldn’t unstick, and when

i tried to walk, i found 

pegs of wood instead?

i would love

to scrub off the layered

crusts of dead

skin cells 

so i could wear your cloak

and hide under the bushes

to howl at the moon - 

some day i’d love to be you

but i’ve grown

to love the old skin

that i’m in.

so i think i’ve decided, to pack my secrets

into a box and ship them to china, only because i can,

and when they dig up the new silk road,

they’ll see how far my arms had reached

and writing can be such a loathsome living

when no one will stand up and applaud

the way your insides just hurt

when you’re trying to wrench out the words

but drinking is never going to fill

the gaps in your head and only

your throat will be better off because

who ever needed a kidney anyway

you know my hat wants to say

that my mind’s gawn fishin’ when really,

nothing is every biting, and all i do is gaze

out across the uncrossable pond.

i’m going to run away

to my rooftop where there are

mangos to be had and then

i think i’ll grow some wings

and fly away.

one footstep and then another

has remained hidden in the 

spaces between the sounds

that linger, sometimes behind 

the shadows of curtains

and the dreams in your eyes

and i walked so, so far

following the north star

into oblivion, but i came

back because my wings could

have frozen and my fingers

would have numbed and turned

to blue ice, but now, by

the blazes of fires, i can’t

make the stories seep

through the cataracts

of your eyes, 

through this gorge

on the other side.

glasses of water

become a looking glass

and I fold over by 

the edges of sidewalks

and listen for the sounds

of footsteps, the clicks of

heels, the taps of toes,

the rumblings of car

engines, and the heat 

still makes me wither

away.

it’s not the night that

i fear the most, really -  it’s

just how i look to myself,

standing pale white in front

of the mirror; and thin and naked

and wisps of hair that had

been black and thick one day

it’s the nakedness that gets

left behind, after i’ve stripped

my layers of tar and dust and

skin off, far away from 

my self, when some of the stars

come back to life and glitter

at me from behind the mirror

and then my eyes turn around

and they look at me

and i run my fingers down my arm

with my voice caught

in the back of my throat.

i live with fizzing
bubbles of ennui after sunsets,
that, rising from the bottom
of my stemmed glass into the mouth
of the rim, leap on to clouds -
soft pillows, these, that they bounce
on to, to ride with
the freezing wings
of the wind.