This is all I need,
Cold stable chair,
cold smooth table,
I hate all of this.
You show me
what I never knew, never understood.
They believed in color
and burning candles
with flames dancing
on ceilings like skies.
I had a silent conversation
with the shadow of a statue.
It questioned me with very forgettable words
and I told it 'I like both Rilke and Neruda.'
I close my eyes so it can fill me.
It flows through my nostrils,
pleasantly drowning me.
It is for me the executioner.
In walking down a beaten dirt road
I felt as though the world were turning
away from me, beneath me in a circle,
to keep me searching.
The people live in eternal night,
so when the sun goes to bed,
they don't always realize that it is dark.
The streetlight is lonely tonight.
Poetry died with my father.
His death marked my first time in a Catholic church.
I remember the man nailed up high,
looking more like a beaten homeless man
Inside me, there is fire.
I know this, because I remember it.
I used to believe in things.
It is cold as I sit out the night on my doorstep.
At dusk, I hate the locusts
that make the sound
like the darkness is laughing.
It is not good