Bread and a block of cheese
and one small glass of absinthe.
Pout it all into my mouth and let me slide.
I’m not fussy about where I end up.

I’m not fussy about ending up on a slab.
Fat in the arteries, pain in the chest.
I don’t wish for it, but I’ll accept it
if it’s what comes my way

after a night with good bread, fresh
and warm, a block of cheese
and a solid, sharp knife to cut with.
And the green milk of the absinthe

sets me apart from the rest of the night owls:
all of them out there thinking pizza or chips
and a beer and a late night talk show.  I’ve got
the knife, the cheddar, the white flesh

of the bread cut thick and soft,
the shot to warm me and steel me
against the winter night.  I’ve got a pen
and a knife and a good meal.

I’ve got an eye on the slab where I’ll end up
and I’ll make myself comfortable in the mean time.
It’s a mean time out there in the dark
but I’m fed, I’m lit, and ready for what’s coming.

That line —
the one you’ve always told yourself
you’d never cross —
is right there
in front of your toes.

On the side you’re on
there’s nothing but shit
and sand.  On the other,

food and water: no banquet
but there’s enough there to hold you together
once you’re back on your side,
and to give you the strength
to stay away from the line
in the future.

When you tell yourself
it’s ok to step over
as long as you don’t erase it,
you realize
you’ve already begun to erase it.

Perhaps the problem you’re having
is the line?  Perhaps
it’s not so much that
there’s a line as it is
that there should be lines at all?

Maybe the truth is
that the problem is
not the line,
but your desire to wipe out
your footprints
so that you can tell yourself
it never happened, so you can tell yourself
no one will ever know you were here?

That’s really a question for the vultures
who are already circling
to answer.  Ask them,
why don’t you?  I think they’ll tell you
they’ll take you
wherever they find you.

what the hawk sees..

details
of hunger

simple need

a rupture
in human attention

balance

regret

the leading edge
of her own wing

the rumpled hair
of the worried lawyer

sustenance

regret, again

need, again

a snake unnoticed
near the cars

the bright fear of
what is above, below

below

the prettiest lights
wear my ring

all you have to do
is stay in the dark
and I’ll let you play with them
for as long as I want

so what if it makes you puke?

you know I only let my favorites
have them

what did you need your day for anyway?
what were you planning on doing
that could be more important
than just lying here in the dark
with your explosions

you need a slap upside the head
with a crowbar
to learn to shut down
shut up
and see what’s what, pal

you stubborn bastard

you need to slow down
and let it all get to you
once in a while

and doesn’t it feel good
to have an excuse to do so?

I’m no
walk-in closet.
More of a wardrobe.
Limited space
for stuff inside —
keep to a regimen
of work, sleep,
occasional fun
and don’t hold on
to many souvenirs
unless they fit into
the small drawers
I occasionally weed
to make slots for new
items.  If I want larger
themes, I go outside
and feel no need to own
what I see. I’m not overfull
with passing fancy this way,
a thing I learned
through experience —
my walls
can’t take
too much weight
and a packed drawer
doesn’t open easily
when you’re in need
of what’s inside.