Breadcrumb #244


In point blank range
the dead, cold core of the star
bled blue and black and silent
while the badge drowned in power
and the shots fired in waves

He couldn’t breathe
but his flesh signed a contract with the grave
years before they transformed his neck
into a portal,
and they watched his life dissipate
and contort into a symbol of
antimatter, dark matter garnered
and choked by the hands of the state

of chaos, of circumstance,
of the romance language of violence
whispered in endless black swan songs.

In point blank range
sidewalks become final resting grounds
where two cents become last words
and lovers becomes statistics
because happiness and liberty mean nothing
when the pursuit of life is contingent.

When your body exists to be counted
and your pulse creeps like a metronome,
and your heart beat is a pendulum pitted
against the syncopated circadian rhythm of
equity comatose.

The fine line between life and death can be blue
and thin and the site of the right kind of fear,
the kind of fear that turns little boys into target practice,
the kind of fear reserved for the white knights
lit by the swirling reds and blues of sirens.

In point blank range
they hunt.
The shots fired in waves compose
the political hydrosphere of bodies
drowned in chaos, in circumstance,
a final solution
that gives the problem the power
and calls it justice.

• • •

Breadcrumb #243


I am not the things I obsess over:
Red face jaded gut
pushing scary narrative
which, in fact, surrounds us plenty,
never enough to the point of screech-
and I’m screeching still,
a torpor of horror
which sounds funnier than it is.
It’s hearing yourself repeated
but ever so twisted, bit by bit
without assault
until the result is the horrorgreen version
and you can’t tell the difference.
They’ll say:
“You look tired.”
They’re not wrong.

• • •

Breadcrumb #242


I loved when we spoke of our
mutual love of movie previews,
starwars and superman shit, 
films and comics, you read, 
and shared and me,
a writer, and you, a hungry reader,
I fell for you mad.

I fell when you lent me your first
editions of superman and neil gaiman.
I fell when you kissed me so hard
one november night, second date and we
had too many sharp upon sharp holiday cocktails,
thanksgiving's eve, and so,
the streets were our own, yet, in our shared,
brooklyn way, silent and equally alive, 
we struck up some bright christmas
lights and nature blessed our romance with a speckle of
first snow, and no pedestrians in sight, 
bk streets our very own snow globe, and your hand in my hair,
all gentle, yet grasping, and
your arm pulling my pelvis into yours, the
the forces that force us to attempt a
flight of heart alongside an other, 
again and again, after too many falls, 
that night, the force, awakened.

• • •

Breadcrumb #241


Inside my body is a body
where I keep my body.
Inside the room I hold my body
– prone, dying fish, wanderer
exhausted –
with the hands of my other
body & listen for the sound
of the living breathing
through the walls. Outside
the window. Smoking on the fire
escape. Once I escaped
the first hole I dug for myself
I watched the sun descend
into the hole that is the other side
of the world & spent
my whole life chasing it
by moving deeper into my body.
When I entered the room
I walked through the door
of your mouth with my mouth.
We breathed together & our breath
gave life to flowers. I once
read a story of a man
who grew a fir tree
in his lung. Our bodies
are worlds & these worlds
war as worlds do. They live
& die. They toil against their walls.
So much in us struggles
with so much in us. If there is truth
at all, it must be this. You hung
frames on empty walls
in an empty room. The frames,
filled with pictures of you
in other rooms. When finished,
you held your knees to your chest
& waited for them to fall.
I was just outside the door.
The importance, I wanted to say,
is that there is anything
worth breaking. I opened
the door & brought the outside
with me & it felt like all
we don’t know feels –
silent, trembling, a thin
vibration rippling the dark water
of the sky. I found you
when the room balanced before
the idea of becoming the ruin
of a room. We live here, now,
in this act of balancing. Here,
where all things
extend toward all things
but never touch. Isn’t it
beautiful? All night
we hold each other
without knowing
we hold each other.

• • •

Breadcrumb #240


Endless pavement descends into the depths of the smoky sun. 
One unforgiving beam cuts through haze,
pulling at the already cracked, artificial surface.

A tree-
hollow and uprooted-
curls towards the earth from which it once stood. 

She listens to hear that boom-
those feet-
sliding through the blades. 

Beneath the mist from that busted flood light,
Baby feasts
on solitude and peace.

Trails of ash stream from the stoves
of forgotten moments
as the hearth bakes the bricks of time. 

A fire rages in the night.
The Willow declares, 
“I am here.“

• • •