Welcome Home

Every room is poorly lit,
but for a kitchen where no one sits
or dare ask about the day.
There are seats that hurt your back but keep it straight,
skin that crawls and makes you hate
every bone it covers up.
Every time you're out you think, "Better now, better now."
And every silence breaks to become a sound
you wish you never knew.

Simple

If I ever end up ripping out your heart,
I promise to at least be gentle.
I won't grind it to a pulp,
or pour it on the streets.
Instead I'll hand it back,
and let it be yours to keep
til the next boy comes along,
being right or a civil wrong.

But that is not my plan.
See, I want to be your rock.
I want to lie at each other's sides
on chilly nights with warmer thighs,
having decided to make time stop
at points here or there,
or the times we can't chase the steady ache,
having come together
so it's the rest we're better than.

First Cold Night in New Interest, MA

It is cold tonight.
Will you walk alright?
Will your hands stay warm in mine,
on a bench as hard as hearts?
Would you be comfortable with a kiss?
Would you rather be indoors?
Would you humor me closely,
and shiver to your core?
Because the sky is kind of clear,
and the clouds that are left are kindly austere
with lessons to be taught by boxers like us
pulling punches like petals off forget-me-nots.
And we can ease up whenever we want,
I'll leave that up to you.
But when it comes time to go,
I will try to pull you through
if you can trust me
as I want to trust you.

Talk With The Holy From Out The Window

Soft and fully melodic,
thorough and methodic,
intention's best friend

is music that comes Early November,
with feelings you recant if you remember,
and a step back to renege so you can start over

in the same lessons where you learn the same things
and revere yourself as your lone reference.
Maybe once will come right and give you blessed credit.

And as cycles circle, masquerading singing,
"I know what I'm doing, I know what is lingering,
we've been here before, so go on, stop your cringing,"

you let out a breath that says back,
"Watch the things around me, at the nape of my neck,
so I can trust what I haven't with my eyes still straight ahead,

and I will do the heavy lifting,
all the wounds and what they're bringing,
take them with me so if I need to look I can still be moving."

Autumn Blankets

I used to love the sound of silence,
but now it worries me.
I feel as though I want to enjoy it,
but there's something I can't hear through its sanctity.
Something holds me back,
it wants me to listen twice as hard and do just as much,
and it never gets specific, just leaves me to figure out "stuff."
So come three weeks through September
comes the still, chilled air as stuff ends all over,
some I'd like to forget and some I can't remember.
And I'll worry about cold ankles, time, and other things that fly
as I walk faster through river wind than I do my mind.
And my pockets will hold my hands closely, hoping I get one thing right:
If I can't be a saint, if martyrs never last this long,
maybe I'll start over too, knowing my mistakes
so I can blanket my choices
like the autumn leaves do concrete.

Heard It On The Radio

Crimson hearts pouring out always see shots taken over shouts.
You can take that how you want --
a rabbit punch to the jaw eyes couldn't say they saw, or
some two ounce glass trounced like how you'd beat someone who stole --
it works either way.

The shouts, they're loud, all right,
and scary 'cause they could be more than "might."
You can take that two ways, too --
as how something more than one could be stronger than just you,
or an option on the reality you're about to go through -- it works either way.

And the problems seep through to expectations --
bags long packed and you get forced to save them.
But it's easy, so much easier to walk away
and wear the scars that dressed you yesterday.
The night is hard to get through.

I always can remember, in case you're wonderin',
how this has gotten in my head, how it always makes me stutter
'cause I know it's not in yours and that you think it's just some thunder,
some noise you can't see. But remember these old shoes, they walked into the ground doin' them miles beneath that sky,
and serve no interest lyin' about what you can get if you mean it when you say you're willing to die tryin'

Hey You

Hey you,
I know what the silence brings. I know
all about understandings from misgivings. I know
about the bittersweet undertow, that never pulls you out
to sea when it's time to say hello, but
makes you feel even as deadwood you couldn't
float.

Hey you,
I know how the dead air taunts with the lure of another way,
the kind that subdues the soreness of how it is and how you want it to be. I know
the smell lingers like when you get home from the beach, how
it stays in your head 'cause it's out your hands' reach, how
it comes to pass like burning gas
on a long trip to somewhere you swear you want to be.

Hey you,
I know about the holding back,
how you end up sayin' nothin' 'cause it all makes your voice crack.
I know all about chokin' up,
and how nothin' ever ends up bein' enough.
I know the desire that burns in your chest like a hole in your pocket,
how it bends you over backwards and still makes you feel like you sought it.

So,
hey,
I'm tellin' you what I know
through and true.
So I'm askin' you,
are you sure you want this silence, too?