sound proof

i pour another glass of wine
guided
by nothing more
than the porch light leaking through
the bars
on the kitchen window.

everything is quiet
right now.

everything sounds like
the blue light peaking out the window
from the top story
across the alley,

and if the train heading towards forest park wants to be heard,
someone else must be listening
nearer
farther stops down the line.

lauren is sleeping
in a room
about 20 steps away.
i count the steps
in my head like wood planks
leading
to a beach.

and besides this silence
and the sound of wine
pissing
into a glass cup,
this is my only comfort.

the duration of a bottle

it was easy.

i uncorked
and sprang
this bottle of wine
that i drank tonight.

it escorted me through
a plate of tortilini,
a game of scrabble,
and a conversation of
the various shades of blue
to paint the bedroom.

half way through
i laid in bed with her.
she wore a long shirt,
i wore the same clothes i
was covered in
this morning,
even the wrinkled shirt,

nothing was finished,
but she went to sleep. 

and before i was done,
seth and i messaged back
and forth
on why catherine should be
in chicago this weekend,
but nothing was resolved.

and now,
with the entire world's hands
folded in silence
i imagine what's left
as i absorb the last drop
of this bottle.

january patterns

the days
add up like snowflakes
that land
on a sidewalk
leading to
an abandoned home.

here,
there is no shovel,
no footprint,
not even a hand
scratching
for a snowball,

but there is always some sound
in some distance
yelling
at us,
tickling
us,
poking at a center
that we hardly remember
even being there.

at some point
even the those gods
must believe in this.

everything
that we are
is either ice
or
that one hour of a sun ray
that melts everything
into something
a little more fluid.

from day one

i did not make this up,

but i was told
that this earth
that i walk upon
is only a sphere.

and all i know
is that i stumble around
all day
in this suit
made of skin and hair
and
the only thing
that i can prove this with
is a map of scabs
and souviners
surrounded
by the circumference
of everything
since day one.

as i walk further
down a path
of circles,
everything
that i know is
nothing
and it's the only thing
i have left.

for l.k.

you sleep there,
like the smartest person
in the world,

right now,
all you are,
are all my bedsheets,

and somehow
i always feel like
i wake up
in the bottom
of an ashtray.

you have the gall
to wake up
and walk in this room
and hug me
like you own me,
even if i'm drunk.

and in the morning
i know,
that all i'll have to give you
is a cigarette
and a hangover.

but i can promise you,
that if we try,
that one day
we will be the only two living
people left.

lakeview hospital

i remember that day
when the bulls drafted
joakim noah.

you just had surgery
and i chain smoked
cigarettes in the parking garage,
of that hospital,
somewhere,
on the northside
of chicago.

the radio station said
that he wore a seersucker suit.

they cut you open right in the middle.

i did not know
what to believe.

i remember the nurse,
joking
about something that i cannot even remember,
i don't know,
but i had a feeling
that you'd still be alive.

your room overlooked
a million skyscrapers
and i sat in that chair
as you rambled on
about the flowers
and the previous visitors
that could never comprehend
clairvoyancy.

in relation

it always begins
quicker
than i can imagine,

like a late friday night,
mid january,
in an empty pool hall,
in oak park, illinois.

her legs are legs,
and her ass
is the table.

i just want to go home

and the next thing i know
is that i'm jilted
in a red car,
gleaming
past a reservation
in the northeast corner
of arizona,
right where some navajo
sells rugs
on the border of new mexico,

we speculate
on the time
that we will cross
the threshold
of albuquerque, new mexico.

we were not even lost.

and two years later
i wake up
in her bed,
in chicago,
on the corner of belden & sacramento
and the only thing
that i can remember
is this dream.