floating and leaving no trace
my hammer will not ring
no anvil to fall on
no metal to forge
no sword to fashion
for any hero’s hand
the crucible does not
overflow with molten metal
no sparks
no ashes
so soot covered skin
or sweat covered brow
no bronze to cast
or chase
no shapes to shape
it is said
that when all you have is a hammer
everything looks like a nail
but sometimes
even the nails are absent
and the hammer
is a cold stillborn thing
in your hand
i long to open you
the way the letter opener
desires to slip between
the thin layers of the envelope
to free the message within
your letters are breaths
whispered, imprints on
time both more substantial
than flame susceptible pages
but as pale as dissolving gossamer
a vomitus of words erupted
from your throat
got caught in your teeth
stained your shirt
so many words
at once you couldn’t hear
what i was trying
to say
i wiped away
the recriminations
the explanations
the assassinations
and found you
had no ears
they had grown over
with a thick skin
unused for so long
today is one
of those wordless days
when all the words
(and all the king’s men)
don’t do any good
remain buried
deep in the chest
like trying to pass
a hairball
from space
i have looked down
into the chasm
as it yawned
(here’s a bedtime story
and a glass of water)
and felt the void at my back
folded like raven’s wings
nothing stirred before
or behind
only me
in between
some kind of ridiculous meat bridge
between
thought and deed
desire and action
life and death
silence and more silence
here is one
of those wordless places
where the syllables dry up
grapes becoming raisins
under an invisible sun
i mistook
what came
from your mouth
as words
when they
were teeth
silent tracks this morning
but so much glass
glittering on the ground
were the wind to pick up
the air would cut me
to pieces
i follow the rails in shoes
with soles so thin
i feel every facet of every stone
trying to pierce my feet
though empty, i have seen the trains
not the romantic locomotives
with porters and bewatched conductors
crowded dining cars
mysterious liaisons
but industrial bulk behemoths
the color of rust
the odor of old burned oil
delivering invisibles
in closed cars
i walk the middle of the track
wood
gravel
wood
gravel
iron on either side
a shirtless jogger approaches
loping toward me
glistening in the sun
i imagine myself
in a coat hanging past the knee
a dusty, wide-brimmed hat
arm relaxed but ready
to draw at my side
another poet’s words
write themselves nearby
first in soot
then in blood:
inspired by beauty
betrayed by lust
abandon[ed] by greed
enslaved by guilt
the jogger turns
the wind rises
and i am cut to pieces
this poem was going to
be about me, a really good one
i could feel it in my teeth
the way they ground together
edge to edge, a squeak
before shattering
close so close
if i could remember a word
just one word
i could piece it together
water the seed
watch it grow
i’d never have to write again
because after i put that to paper
what else
what more could i
have to add
walking in a land
where i am not heard
i cannot hear the words
of the army of deaf mutes
only the popping
of gristle as they work their
jaws like meat grinders
or am i the one
who makes no sound
and cannot receive
a benediction
my words are spittle
on rice paper
bleached driftwood carving lines
in the sand
you enter my blood like
like a fever and hollow me out
making flutes of my bones
i pull you close
smell your hair your skin
and still i breathe hot
on the mirror
and run a finger through it
we fall in love with ghosts
and with our ideas of ghosts
and our ideas are ghosts
and our words are their
quick and dead forms
the air transforms my words
into cold clouds
cold words
fearful ones
laughter as well
i inhale
my teeth complain
–maybe the new crown
but maybe maybe maybe
this winter air
has pack us in ice
a garage freezer
keeping us fresh til spring
if my words turned into snowflakes
i would catch them in my palm
and let them melt
if your words turned into snowflakes
i would catch them on my tongue
and swallow them
Words and Feathers 