In denial
of the wet
shine of ice
on the steps.
Been thinking
it’s warmer than
it actually is. I slip
and fall before I can
prepare myself for the
hazardous surface underfoot.

When my head
cracks into the porch floor
I see stars, midday stars
that are only in my eyes.  Novas
of sick bust out in my throat.
I am suddenly a universe born
of my mistake and my arrogance. 

Does the internal possession
of a galaxy or two
of pain and derangement
make me a god?  No —

I’m just flat on my back
on the stairs, my bleeding head
resting on the floor of my porch.
And I rent, so I don’t even own these —
small and pitiable here,
broken up and maybe even
seriously hurt, yet I fantasize
about power and glory,
the constellation of injury
provoking delusions.

Inside, comets and violet
energy. Outside, blood congealing
in the sharpened air
of February.  Between them,
a foolish man.  I’d better get up
before I freeze this way.

You say

shame’s like a cracked tooth.
It keeps you wincing delicately
at odd times, but then
you move, you pass
through. You pull
the pain
and leave a hole.

Other feelings, other definitions
float by.  You seize the most
arresting ones for yourself:
happiness, you say, is a dark
choice made in
sunlight; grief an infant
left too long alone
on a quilt in a bare room;
anger a rare bird
of cracked leather
flying blind; love
a ridiculous suit. 

It’s delicious to some
that you are so swift
with this.

You are passing through
and throwing no shadow,
only a description of a shadow.
Solidity offends you. You mold
your boundaries as if they were
fresh from the clay bank,
never to be fired. 

Tomorrow, you’ll say
shame’s a donkey, grief’s
an egg on a ship’s deck, love’s
a new ribbon on an old flag.
And happiness? Happiness
is anger, is happiness. For you,

emotion itself is
simply a blanket you hem and re-hem
so it doesn’t unravel when you pull it
up over your head. 

Horror
is seeing
or being
a man with a pen
in his chest
where he should have
a racing heart.

House
is a radiotuner

brings in signals
from elsewhere
like the saxophonist
on the second floor
who moved in
with his snakeinsomniac solos

or the oftenplanemistaken rumble
of the furnace

occasional voices
of somethingcatdisturbing
in back and front halls

runningon
slurringwords
or in stac-
cato
bursts

near to meaning something
but not
quite

House
is no presets
no hanger antenna

brings in anyway
beams of connected tones
almostnotquite audible
maybe there’s a story here

or maybe it’s in me
and it’s
interpreting

Courage
is a ruffle
on a suit
at a funeral,
a puffy sleeve
in a sports bar.

The bravest people I know
are not the instantly, drop a hint and it happens
nude ones.
They are the grandmothers
in huge hats
perched on shrunken heads
and turkey necks,
the old men with the hiked up pants
and flat asses.  Sweatpanted
chunky moms, dads
with the weekend beers
thrust out over the belt.

Anyone who says
this clothing
is mine, I chose it,
I reveal myself through it.
Then, if you want the real me
to get naked for you,
take this hot but honest mess
as is
and prove you’re worthy
of seeing my history
uncovered.

That’s a beautiful place
you’ve got there

As intricate as
a sand castle

It’s so
lovely
With such fragile materials
and such a fickle base

You’ll excuse me
if I prefer to walk around it
and ooh and aah
rather than move in

Do not hesitate to spill
your gasoline blood
near an open flame.
Do not fear to approach
the angel of justice
when its sharp wings are open.

Don’t imagine the world is safe.
Do what you need to,
shiv the guard before the gate
or bed the devil who carries
the keys to the kingdom.

Just don’t expect to come away
with your prize without a scar,
because claiming to honor
the impulse to danger
and then insult it
by attempting to render it
impotent
is to die indeed.

They are before you now, the teeth of the Hydra
waiting to fall from the jaw
you swear you want to bust open
and grow into a army arrayed against you.
Are you truly ready to fight?