When the shrubs ceased their dance,
the smallest one
peered into the night sky
and wondered aloud,
“Why do the trees have constellations
but we do not?”
The wisest of their number rustled,
“It is because they are tall enough
to rearrange the stars in their own image
while we must be content to divert
the streams and send bits of ourselves
to countries far away.
The trees will always wonder if
the patterns they have arranged are true.
They must grow many limbs
to support the burden of their conceit,
and grow many rings
to support the burden of their limbs.”
The tiny shrub seemed to understand,
tightening its roots,
pulling itself closer to the ground.

another feeble dream
clawing at breakfast table
resplendent night song now
offensive in sane morning
swaths of Thursday
the wistful day
incubating more fevers to
come for me at dusk

Have you ever just walked outside,
your head preoccupied with some bullshit,
and get punched in the gut by a sunset?
You think you’ve seen them all
but suddenly you’re standing there, weeping,
remembering that before you woke up this morning
you had been human.
It breaks your heart to see something so beautiful.
It offends the machine that has been slowly encasing your body.
Your heart explodes into your throat
because the sunset is dying.
You will never know it again.
The moment slips and you die with it.

When there’s nothing left to say
And I’m standing here breathing
Into the receiver which has been stuffed
With the black marshmallows of your silence,
And the phone is a plastic leech
Nursing warmly at my earlobe,
I realize that the picture on my wall
Of Bora Bora
Is not Bora Bora at all,
But a beach on Kokomo
That has been made to look exactly like
A beach at Bora Bora.
Now that I am on to the fact that
Someone is going around creating flawless facsimiles
Of tropical islands,
I had better be pretty damn sure
That Key Largo really is Key Largo
Because that’s where I’m going
To forget that “we” ever gave each other anything more than
Furtive glances.

I know you think that I’ll never carve pumpkins again
Because only “we” carved pumpkins
In that special exclusive way,
And I should want to keep those moments sacred.
But you’re wrong.
I’ll sit there on the beach at Key Largo
And carve a pumpkin every fucking day
And it won’t mean a thing to me.
Sometimes there’ll be a girl there
To help me carve the pumpkin.
Yes, hon, a girl; someone other than yourself.
In fact, there’ll be a different girl every day!
And when we’re done carving that pumpkin,
We’ll roll naked in the sand
And the pumpkin meat.
There’ll be little almond-shaped seeds
Plastered all over us
And I will not be thinking about you at all.

You, of course, are oblivious to all of this.
You believe I should be concerned with the fact that
One day you woke up to find that your safe little world
Was really made of slinkies and tinker toys.
I remain silent on the phone.
I let you think I’m thinking about you thinking that I’m thinking About what you thought I said to you.
But I’m not thinking that at all.
I’m thinking that I’d rather dangle my balls
In a piranha tank
Than give you the satisfaction of weeping into the phone,
Cracking open my heart,
Making me say “Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s okay.”
You’re not going to get that from me this time.
All you can hear now is the muffled bubbling of your voice
As I drown you.
I flush and flush,
But you won’t fit down the hole
And the coiled umbilical cord stretches taught,
Trying to stay attached to my world.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m gone.
I’m off to Key Largo
Or whatever the fuck they’re calling it today.