drafts

"drafts"

it's true what i have said--

that i am
             weary. misplaced.
still stuck in the stream
                                        of
monotony. by daylight
                                       my
legs drag along the riverbed.

day-dreamt of ghosts bound
to the fences
                    their brothers
& sisters
                   once sat upon--

at night i am
                     drowning.

unable to lighten the weight
of myself.
               
remaining a student, a son, a
child
           to the eyes of forever.

(title-less) from Michelle Gottschlich / edited/chopped from Josh Zoerner

n/a

i dreamt of lake michigan. dreamt

that i could smell 

                             foul water & the 

waste of the mill furnace. 

watched Bethlehem’s stale candle. 

                                         & sister, 

i dreamt of you. 

you

       up to your shoulders in water.

from the beach,

i watched mercurial waves lick 

your

        clavicle. 

saw a host of gulls circle 

                                        over us, 

& waited for their cries 

                                    like distant 

door hinges. 

i thought of the rosary 

                                   mother gave you 

&  sister, i

                   stopped 

                                believing 

but prayed to the gulls anyway.

& i couldn’t get to father. so i

                                                waited 

for you. i stayed

perched at your window, 

                                         watching 

the garden tremble. 

                               sometimes hiding 

under your covers.

& it's true, 

i can smell your sweat laced with the 

dirt of summer.

sister, i wondered if you had

                                              drowned 

or forgot how to swim. 

i could teach you again.

(i thought you might like 

                                       the water) 

on your side of the bed i reason 

to myself how you didn’t cry at 

our stepfather’s funeral. you’d find me 

rose-eyed 

                just staring at your ceiling. 

sister,

          you are a russian doll 

& i keep you safe. 

& sister, in my dreams i wait for you, 

i wait just to hear for 

                                 your footsteps to 

crack on our floorboards. 

fledgling

"fledgling"

i sit in a hotel suite writing
                                           about fame
& tradition.  ramshackle
                                        assemblage of
papers

            trailed by the affectionate cuddle
of cigarette smoke. i must've
                                              seemed old
& grey from her angle.
                                     even concrete &
glass put me to shame.

but that's not what other people
                                                 think. i am
a different season-- a hugeness of fiction.
an unending catherine wheel, that goes
     

           & goes.

"letters of note"

marvelous,

you are fooling around elsewhere.

we shared interesting places &
       listened to one another's antecedents.
i am certain
                   that is where this comes from.
i am half as good as i once was
                           and you see well enough.

to hell with it,
                         this is what we do
when we are at our best.

i am sure
               you were wonderfully
                                        naked

as you both tumbled the way novice acrobats
tumble. my memory will
                                                  place the shit
in the wastebasket, but this time you
                                                          cheated.

then my head flickers & i remember some old
words: "we have to hurt like hell
                                                     before we
get serious."

heavy handed

"heavy handed"

hands give & give back;

calloused fingertips twirl

obstinate purity as it falls

in & out of place.

what i have is a dream of you.

a clock tick rouses an empty

feeling to which i can't relate.

when i wake the room is bare.

white gloom in our thirties

seems elegant now. does it

strike you as profound to

run in our hour of need?

employ a fortuneteller; attempt

to predict time- but never wind

back the clock.

i'll climb toward stars &

make a home in your hair.

then again, maybe i won't

but i might.

i say that because there is despair in

wedding bells-- a stream of pure discord

that would run through my head & roll

from my mouth like a long-distance train.

there is a price for paradise.

if you do not believe me, i

will show you the scars.

recurring

"recurring"

it's strategy

the way you'd trade me

for better associations,

try to piece together everything &

realize that nothing turns you on,

to distinguish lies from truths & learn

of the secret, quiet places that i wander.

sometimes i wake up without your voice

and when i do, i always want to.

true widow

"true widow"

a true widow

stares into oven burners

& notes that love is the same as

writing novels for the deaf;

an epic soundless emptiness.

a true widow

stares into oven burners.