and learn to fly.

MATT.

i am in public!

your posting is not work appropriate. 

you and i are living on the brink of an illusion.

my days are filled with enough deadlines and headlines and homophobes to make a better smarter nobler person quit

my life isn’t exciting

it’s erecting itself
slabs of discard marble stacked on
terracotta ruins
so history will meet expense and
wear its dissonance on the
sleeve of
tonal architecture

i could speak for days

for the days that are overcast
for the nights that are sparkling
for the wine that has soured
for the coffee that has coolled

i want my calendar to turn itself
and scribble in at eight thirty every pm
‘time to drink’
at six am
love someone
at three fifteen
blink, because you haven’t yet

everyone’s lives are full
and everyone’s eyes are tired
except for the vegans
they’re fueled on pretention and parsnips
leaving the cow methane for
mouth breathers
and
muddy little children

only children for three more days
then your self-taught shame kicks in
and the resurrection of your
invitation into a world of indignity insecurity and doubt
appears on your doorstep

pick up the card, i dare you

my days are filled with more streetlights and weather sirens and weathered shamans to make a better smarter nobler person quit

and i’m not complaining

i’m pontificating
i’m considering
i’m talking out my ass

the air outside is so very tired
it shrugs slowly down my lungs
rolls sonorously out my nostrils
and begs and begs for a rest

let me give it a rest

there’s time enough
in another day
to talk of the state of things.  

petrichor, after rain.

really beautiful things fall together
the way i fall into your lap at a wild raunchy party
wistful of the morning to come
when i won’t be near you
and you will be near here
and the really beautiful thing is the sunrise
rising despite the moon
because of the stars
for the sake of the planets
the cosmos have to much to teach me

come down and teach me

crash the earth to bits with all the ancient wisdom of
below freezing mass of rocks
and air i cannot breathe
and wind i can see
and soil the color of a martian’s eye socket

come down and teach me

there’s so much to learn in this highly
limited
time

i need to know the word for the skin under the end of your nose
i need to know the amount of space between god and the sistine chapel
i need to know the numeric value of love on any day but february fourteenth

if i die before i wake from the daily grind
let’s imagine god greets me with fresh coffee grounds in a big bag
woven from stardust and planetary waste

breathe deeply, my child, its the smell of rebirth.

and he’ll take me very close to his big barrel chest
fuzzy with heavenly chest hair
and tell me,
“it’s okay”

unless he’s a she, or either or or
then she’ll kiss the skin of my forehead
rub lilac on my temples 
and usher me into a wading pool of wine and endless wedding dress lace

really beautiful things fall together
the avalanches fall over people
with more life left to live than leaders of men
lepers have every reason to greet the sun
the way mourners have every reason to smile
not because there’s a tomorrow
or the chance at another yesterday
but because today rose
like your arms in a morning stretch
and gave the gift,
no ribbons no wrapping,
of a whole new day to try again

i know i don’t speak from experience
i know my first world is the awful catalyst to your third

but really beautiful things fall together
the way i want to fall to you,
and keep you warm
and keep you safe
and keep you free
despite the moon
because of the stars
for the sake of the planets
the cosmos have to much to teach us

come down and teach us 

la-la-la-whatever.

it’s snowing
and you’re crying

muted by tufts of ice and water on the ground
the cars feel somehow farther
the air is definitely weight by the cold
bloated with the grey and dark and winter

it’s snowing
you’re crying
    I wish I could hold you
    I wish I knew how to put all the injustice
from you
inside of me
away from you
so your beautiful eyes won’t be cloudy
your beautiful face won’t go red
with terror
your excellent soul doesn’t need
to suffer
I love you so much
and not just for your tragedies
not just for your fears

it’s snowing
you’re crying
   the world holds its breath
   for you to take the floor
this moment is yours
and I only want you to shine 
oh sweetheart
you’re going to shine
and melt all this snow away
all the mutes and pauses
and terrible halts of
the heart

because you’ve everything anyone wants
all the joys the clouds suck up
all the light the stars could shine
all the warmth in a mother’s womb

it’s snowing
you’re crying
the snowangels sing for you, lying on the ground,
blanketing the grass from the sky
they’ve never seen such lovely hurt

it’s snowing
you’re crying
wash the earth clean, baby boy,
wash it clean.  

i’m slowly turning into you.

the snowdust over concrete parking lots
like powdered sugar off a pancake
after the first big bite
it’s so cold outside
     I’m walking home
alone
a bit drunk
a bit piqued
a bit lonely

all of which goes without
saying

I wish I could love you
you’d be such a great fit
such a nice pair of arms
to rest my head
my whole being
my heart in

I’ve made it into the foyer 
of my complex
the light is out
but everyone’s home

the foyer, a holding pen
     for all the times I
wanted
you
to grab my face
and kiss me
or hit me
or just let my skin feel
yours

there’s snow scampering into
  the staircase as fast as
it can as I close the door
    you’re so goddamn talented
    so fucking brilliant
    I don’t want to insult
your
     intelligence

the stairs insinuate warmth
the way a Norman Rockell painting
  does family
 ancient yellow lights illuminate
   the promise of bed and base metals
and battlegrounds
where no yelling took place
    just silent slices into the
  thick velvet overcoat
of how much I do not like her

the snow has found
its way
     into my apartment
a complex completely free
of complication
   because she isn’t back
yet 

I won’t look outside
I will fall straight to
bed
vodka heavy on my tongue
you heavy on my consicence
me heavy breathing undersheets

I’m sorry I’m not a nice
    patchwork in your quilt
I’m sorry I’m not a winsome
    token of your masculinity
I’m sorry I can’t look you in
     the eye without wondering
if
this
could
should
won’t work

the snow has taken a pause
      giving room for the ice
to settle comfortably on all
    the places you’ll walk tomorrow.