-1A destruction on Labor
I'm trying to remember the last time that I wrote a poem -
Rereading the ashen inspirations
of old collected artifacts
spread out like dusty hieroglyphics
beneath the salt licked loveliness
of a memory gone soft
with words.

I don't hate words; though
I do not love them.

It seems that I was born to compile
them around me, like kings, knights,
lovers, children. They are mothers
and fathers to me. Kinder, and sterner
then anything I have known in my own

They are noisy, quiet things.
Hyper and lavish.

pricks at me
with a moth-like silkiness
and a tongue-like

Tonight, I would like to say nothing
of love...

nothing of (but it's all I can think about)
and you, reader, will find it silly to know
that that is so.

I will think of this, as a kind of goodbye letter
to the last year. A farewell wave (gloved
hand outstretched) to our babbling conversations,


I can remember all of them, and none of them.
They have grown twisted in my mind, tree limbs
all tethered to the same earth, but euphonious
to the meaning of structure.

I could never fill a poem with how much you
have meant to me. How much I have changed
since you came into my life. All of the fossils
shed to crown this new skin of mine.

Reader - you'll laugh to know that I've started
walking around gazing at my reflection in mirrors -
I say: "Look
are." and other silliness.

But what of it, reader?
Where is the poem in all of this?
Where is the dazzling love story?
The hard fleshy nude souls splashing against
each other like harsh backdrops in the
myopic light?

Where am I?
In what verse can I tell you
where to find me? In what
word, or letter? What


It is at this part in the creation
that I forget where I was going, and
I scroll back up to the beginning.
My madness: 'I'm trying to remember the last time that I wrote a poem -'

In truth, reader
I cannot remember.

I have been thinking lately
of bills, job promotions,
gas prices, bills, food, car
payments, bills...

I thought longingly this evening
of composing a grand
sonnet to Bristol Palin
and her unborn child -

I criticized her decision
to give birth, until I remembered
that your mother was her
age when you were born

and I cannot imagine
a world without you;

even though
you're going away

Like I said before,
this is my ending for us,
a sharp melodic conclusion
to shinny beginnings, rainy
nights spent in Burien,
clustered arguments in
Tukwila, closed doors,
and what-ifs.

Oh, reader
It's just you
and me

I want to end this now -
give you a bang for your
virtual buck. Stop all of this.
Even though I spent the last
few hours pacing, trying to
remember what it felt like
to let my mind scratch
out words on paper.

It's a strange feeling, reader,
yet, lovely, and welcoming
all the while.