benevolentI am so preciousbenevolent by Sasukesadork
that they lift the apple to my lips
and hand it over, gently,
to little hands working my throat.
A piece gets stuck and they coax it further.
On the back of my tongue
there is a taste
like the sky with copper clouds.
I am so
they lay against my feet with arms outstretched,
so tiny, so easy to betray if I ever moved the way
I dream of moving.
I imagine their hearts
beating a bead’s worth of blood
and sometimes I pretend I can feel it
radiating from their chests
and filling me.
I am so numb.
My skin so thick, they stand on my shoulders,
the slightly taller ones do,
and whisper to me
my value, put a small hand on my shoulder-
not quite far enough up the slope to be my neck
and I can’t feel them.
When a tear comes
they all gather round to watch it
slide down my cheek.
I blink the next away and
days have passed.
Who says the universe is in my ribcage?
Who built me this way?
DivideWe move in reverse.Divide by Sasukesadork
As he fades in, I fade out, I leave
my bic razor in a bag on the floor near the window, I dissolve
I can’t see him, I can’t
touch, but I know his hands as I pass through them,
warmer than the grass and the sky and the snow;
I feel like springtime, even as I backtrack
through winter, as he
sucks the snow up against the soles of his shoes
to fill in the tracks.
Last summer is blue with smoothness,
without a handhold to catch or a place to fall, only a thunderstorm
much stronger than me. Shaking, I slow.
The static tears at the pattern, rips the stitches,
where my body was there are lungs and an ache,
but as air, all I have to trade is movement.
Further on, I skate over windshields on the highway,
taste the way the music wanders, follow myself
through the cycle
of the dying
in the shoulders.
I pick up bones,
nudging them into the grass.
Later I retrieve them, keep them
in my pocket, thr
Black StonesThe piano manBlack Stones by Sasukesadork
stepped through the static as if it were snow.
I watched him through the window,
he was out in the field
the day I was first teaching myself to drink coffee black.
It was bitter on my tongue,
I stepped out of myself to put the flavor
under a microscope
I found it in the history books.
I thought, how could I do this half asleep.
How can I be cultured in the morning.
In the field he wavered
blinked out and back, a silhouette
falling to its knees.
I leaned towards him
and he leaned away, fell
like a bow on violin strings,
he didn’t leave a mark or a stone
and as the snow blew across the field, drifted and danced,
I wondered about graveyards.
Here a man died.
In my mind, his mark
on the world.
MorningI don’t have much to go on.Morning by Sasukesadork
It’s seven am.
I had a dream where the
snow was so high I could sit
cross legged on top of a drift in
and look over the fence into the driveway.
I didn’t feel cold.
reminiscent of a picture someone snapped
of Nate and me at the
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame;
a great shot at my back, he
kneeled next time me, looking at me and
I stared out at the lake.
I don’t know what I was aiming for,
not then, not now, not
this or that, but it’s something in the realm of
sitting in my car an extra ten minutes to catch a glimpse
of the same person I left alone out of
embarrassment, because somehow
I’ve always been ashamed of feeling.
I was trying the taste of
each individual excuse, with the engine idling.
This morning after everything had cooled down,
as I stumbled unapologetically from 6:20 to 6:30 to
the easy chair downstairs, I decided that
“Do I really need an excuse to leave at 10:20 when I’ve got