A HISTORY OF (DIS)ORDER

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At last, the power tools are exhausted.
I wouldn’t name them if I owned them
a rough-hewn cabinet of dried bouquets
I’m writing a book called “Surprised by Metal”
whose sentience insults this room—
and then sets fire to the magazine
which isn’t mine, and explodes—
I wish you were here.















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In general I have either
the whole or the part, never both
the lungs to be extremely lyrical with
to prompt these rocks.
But forgive me—
I got a good deal on this money order—
I reaffixed the birdbath with a pie pan
and there it sits, waiting to get washed.
I adore you. And either my logic is valid
and this world is a duplex,
and this world is a duplex.















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Taking the dog out to piss
I found myself in a pantheistic landscape
green in praise of the rain we got.
But like grass I have a hard time
seeing the quotidian as a unit of gratitude
which is why my diary is seasonal
and unrehearsed. And I have stuttered in
the face of a beautiful prose
open at the mouth from which
I could never write it.















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These days I'm doing everything
therapeutically. I have an adult
coloring book and one black pen.
I'm not optimistic, but I do have hope.
And the smiles that play
among Hart Crane's stones.
Do they want me to find them.















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This is not my hope:
that if one broken mood
can pause beneath a rope swing
look to the horizon
and take root, there must be creatures
better than ourselves.

This is not my hope:
to find a stranger’s diary
on a park bench and share
with their absent body—
their genderless script—
a moment of pure recognition.















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This is not my best light, either.
Settled in the hole that resembles
gathering strength until I can begin
to go swimming.
And it isn’t June yet. My motto of
sleep or be slept in—
could you read it aloud to me?