Lightning

Gordon dies in Georgia

and I have yet to mourn —

but you are extraordinary.

He tells me this when I worry about his death

like those words are a powerful hymn,

older than Jesus,

older than mercy.

So what is my legacy at 24?

A strewn out something-something,

nothing like Gordon’s

a genuine keeper of his faith

What says the pupil when the mentor dies,

what avenues do they navigate?

(but you are extraordinary)

Good lord I do pray for Michael,

he yells out, thumps his chest

like it is a empty stump,

with ancient rings, southern sensibility.

If I am extraordinary he is of the gods.

He leaves the earth dressed

in his blackest Sunday best, bolo tie

to grace him like a silver bowed present.

So deliver me to heaven, he says. On time!

I sit outside, forcing a tear.

The raw sun sets into summer

silence and splintered lightning

is sign of an August storm,

and heaven acknowledges

it's best man’s passing.

What does the prophet do

when his Jehovah leaves him?

What's left, but to talk about how

I am extra extra ordinary.

graduate weekend

friday night at a husked bar top

made of smoky chaparral

and cactus green paint.

we shot tequila that had no color

and tried on spanish phrases

like we had no color.

dominoes slapped wood

while we multiplied across the table

in equations of ivory rectangles.

the bonepieces weaved

a trail around empty wine bottles

and the ghosts of marijuana seeds.

saturday night in a stripped garage

that spread it's belly open

to the sound of electric guitars.

youth danced in the whisps

of cigarette smoke,

they punched at swollen noise

and shook their bones–

like it was cult ritual

for time killing.

two dollars bought entry

to an impotent keg

and waves of reverb to lull

me into a pre-dawn haze.

sunday on the lawn

and we sprawled in our black robes

like a midnight mass across

the white chairs and morning light.

i walked with my peers

under the gaze of our archaic instructors.

stone faced, these relics of academia

shook our sweaty hands

and mispronounced our names,

like we were a disposable group

to fill in the quiet space

between the commencement

ceremony 4 and ceremony 6.

legs

my wife admires my legs

from not a distance

but from the next cushion

over on our couch.

this couch is a deep blue

and horseshoe shaped—

we're sitting on goodluck.

these legs are not subtle,

covered with a cloak

of black hair that's crowded

like an ny subway.

these are the legs

that taxi my pale bones

from home to job to home.

this my hour of sobriety.