The writing about was the writing.

Lines 2

It stands in, quickly relevant and on-its-feet with an assembled spectatorship.

He refuses to participate. Worse, he willingly participates.

Oh, that’s just a poem. Don’t worry, you will know.

Its constitution, firmly established precedents. You will

Pretense was an old favorite, and it creeps into that half-reality of that nightmare.

Look at the urn. Believe only what you can see –

If you have to cling to science, that doesn’t constitute belief.

Why          does           that          still           matter.

Give a line assistance and it will breathe.

Look at the urn. You cannot validate your suffering.

Not to write at all. Assert that independence from the burdensome knowledge.

You cannot cling to this validation. The residuals approximate the variables.

I liked to watch the frightening way the wind kicked up the sand.

To push past precedent, passed pretense          why that still –

Resounds for me, sound it out again because the lines are separated.

Lines 1

Take away its power by saying it out loud. No, it’s not enough – write it down.

An original story. A story toward the bottom of the pile of stories.

You are left talking to yourself if you can’t believe in anything.

I’ve considered writing more than I’ve written. I do not have a boundary.

I have never considered it’d be better not to write at all.

There is always audience. You, he, they, her, it it it.

Take away its power by figuring out how to stop being angry. No, it’s not easy –

Take away the only comfort I knew was mine, deserved
Take away the only kind of reassurance that still mattered

You are left, a year later. You do not want to be the more loving one.

Jump with me, play the game where I hide the meaning poorly, evenly split.

Line, it’s all line again. The angry line. The defiant line. The needling line.

Percussive, scraped –

Too much too intense too line story that original binding, first edition.

Her she isn’t, and you weren’t, and they aren’t. It won’t stop.

Play a game for me, where you give the meaning, poorly.

An exclusion or an allowance

I hate statistics. Unreasonably sure statements of fact, missing piece of person stuck to assurance. Look at it this way: If you tell me that the odds are 50/50, I know which side of the 50 I’m on. It’s not pessimistic so much as accurate, a statistic itself. You try to hold yourself accountable. Words carry varying amounts of weight. The need to account for the why becomes overwhelming. What lives behind a number, in corner, in a fold. There is possible exception. An exclusion or an allowance or both at once.


Pulled, flat out stretched     unbroken
Text that breathes     which stifle
Overpower and overwhelm
Folded flower

Broken, a fix     word that fixes

A substantial, substitution
Smolder and ash      flipped
For what was worth      fraught,
Tenuous knots
Or solution, arithmetic

4. Dream, Setting the Scene

I know spite – familiar nose, shape of face. This is a packed-up iceberg and I’m chipping.

I have imagined that I am split into two selves living two lives, the awake-living self and the sleep-living self. But it is bad math, always me; it’s morning and I am tired, sore.

The relief of responsibility tied intimately with losing control over memory. The lack of anxiety coupled with an unbridled anger or worse, a relaxed fear. Leaving the tangible bedroom, headed right for a stark truth.

Night terror screams are uniquely identifiable.

What doesn’t slide stays recognizable. Proved it to awake-living self and tricked the numbers out of the dream. It can be easy or persistent. All day all night the lack of a narrative is ignorant, the sleep-living self is more or less ignorant. I don’t know. It recurs.

Often I notice that I’m supposed to be otherwise. It’s supposed to or alters the twist gives a new opportunity but the door is a word you forgot. And you know that you did not forget.

Fragmented. Or the movie of lives you lived or didn’t live and you are asleep or awake but the film is a reel of records that tell a different story. Several scenes replay.

I will build stories out of both worlds. Neither shows the entire picture.

Tempo wind and tree branch

What-if maybe could fated, be-different, fair, ruined fault-line turned out but should, soul-mated wish nightmare numbers, corners and lots. Designed to get rid of,

Owned and buried not a drawer not a box not an urn but a harmless moon of material, sent out. Standing on top of the circle looking down, glimpse of what,

Centuries spent listening rain-water falling, tempo wind and tree branch. A gun goes off in familiar territory, literally of course, the sky opens up soothes the concrete.

Against odds, butterfly. The ripples are endless and inevitable.

3. Middle-of-Night, Setting the Scene

I have never been able to sleep through the night. It’s all exactly what you would expect.

What sort of child doesn’t worry about the wide expansive darkness of human existence? I worried a lot about fire for a year. Other years, robbers being kidnapped serial killers ghosts etc. My ability to project onto outside forces developed early and over-night.

My bedroom first had wallpaper with clowns and balloons. I was a celebration, and there was lots of red. When I was twelve and starting to understand my bedroom as fortress we had the walls painted white and put in a teal carpet. I can feel laying on that carpet – crying, or not alone and taking that in, or writing or singing and dancing or reading.

I didn’t/I don’t sleep alone well, although I also don’t like to share my bed with almost everyone. What you might do to wake me up keep me up infuriate me, from least to most offensive: twitch, steal the blanket or pile the blanket on me, cough, sneeze, get up to have a drink of water, touch me without invitation, snore. I’m not pretty in the middle of the night but I’m fierce.

The middle of the night does not ask for much explanation. But I do, I want to understand why I’m either awake or might as well be. Why I hate sleeping on my back. Why I didn’t know it was the last night she’d be there. Why I’m in a car and I’m shaking. Why I did or did not. Why is a big deal in the middle of the night.

Once I moved out of the dorm, I’d stay up late watching movies with Bear in that big red dish chair. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, True Romance. Kill Bill 2. Once I moved in with E., I mostly stopped staying up late. The Daily Show, The Colbert Report. Fitful bouts of sleep, late-night classes that sent me straight to bed or sneaking out to the living room couch, that terrible uncomfortable ugly and finally gone couch, and watch TV.

And that year by the ocean. The smell of the air on a humid July night or when snow mixes with sand. The waves continue throughout the night. Creating playlists of Simpsons episodes to lull me into a sleep-like stupor, a quieting or comforting of mind. And a phone rang or maybe I was already reaching for it. It was all breeze that year, the middle of the night. A ferocious breeze.

I’m going to call midnight to 4:30 AM as middle-of-night. When most people are sleeping.


Circle    Music    There
Line     Corner(s)     Clock(s), e.g. Alarm clocks
Question     Whispering     Phone
Synonym     Gravity     Decide/-cision
Stuck     Cliché      Sun(light)(shine)
Point      Ghost(s)      Snow
Possible     Hiding       Bedroom
Passable/to pass      Dig/-ging     Library
Story     Box(es)              Symmetry
Parentheses      Porch(es)       Body
Choice/choose         Of course         Fix(ed)
Relative/relation/-ship         Buried       Awake
True/truth          Intention             Dream
July                Marked                      Project
Date                    Birthday                   Language
Myth          Frost(Robert)      Air
Fences          Outline                  Coincidence
Investigation/-ing         Complicated         List
You                 Evidence                   Force(d)
Settle             Drawer           Search
Turn       Gates                 Break(s)/-ing
Bench            Swing              Comfort(able)
Scar(s)           Boundary        Pretend/-ing
Tattoo(s)              Shoulders           Tugging
Secret           Horses            Island
Brush/-ing              Girl                  How
Basement(s)       Define/-ition        Lighthouse
Cut(s)/-ing                  Artifacts            Her
Math           Ocean                      Words
Numbers                 Here                 Window

1. Fences, Setting the Scene

The house I grew up in sits on a corner. Lots of fencing. Wooden, iterations of the same fence pulled down, in a state of disrepair, a subject of contention. I asked for a favor. I lived in that yard.

I was pretty good at jumping fences. I might get caught on the switch – the crossover to inside, necessary less-than-minute of trusting gravity and hands. Laughing and looking down. But more often than not, I could jump a fence.

Schoolyard fences, library fences, a fence to a pool at an apartment complex on the boardwalk. Fence to a construction site. Fence to a golf course. Ditch surrounded by a fence. We almost got stuck.

Climbing-fences were green, silver, or silver-painted chipping green. Chain-woven diamond-shaped footholds. Concrete sidewalk, lawn landing and off running. A sprinkler a playground a nighttime game of basketball.

Fences along a creek with nearly no water. It wasn’t my fence-jumping abilities; it was that long purple skirt. It was wondering about the feeling of being helped over in that long purple skirt.

And then with a gang of giggles marching that creek’s length. Leading the expedition. Dare you to walk over that wooden board searching out four-leaf clovers singing songs. Taking notes, pretending but also not pretending.

A barrier enclosing an area, typically consisting of posts connected by wire, wood, etc. A a dealer in stolen goods. A horse jumping over a fence. Fences hold in or out but something is wanted. Fences have gates.

I stood at the fence on the far side of the park, fingers laced through the chains. A camera close-up through the fence face behind the chains. I brought a letter that I didn’t write. I leaned on that fence.

Now I think about houses often but not as much about fences. Of course, Frost was right and all that. And to climb a fence would require emergency. But I spend time on its synonyms: balustrade barbed wire barricade hedge pickets posts rail stakes.

I spend my time on boundary.



In any specific situation there must be
Given the context and related facts
A skin / Boundaries
That do not ask for definition,
A way of moving without pushing
Up against. In any specific situation
There will be actors, must be bodies
Moving across and against mouthing
Words that will exist as a reminder
A tattoo / July
With a new heat, and a familiar exercise.


I am not asking. A question which stills,
Resting, biding time. A birthday.

Bone stirs, fidgets, restless. Buried
And digging / uncovered and hiding.

A swing, a scar, an urn.
Objectively overwrought,

Ringing branched open window.