Sometimes I wonder how much of my being in love is just my being stubborn.

Love Song: I and Thou

Nothing is plumb, level or square,

the studs are bowed, the joists

are shaky by nature, no piece fits

any other without a gap

or pinch, and bent nails

dance all over he surfacing

like maggots. By Christ

I am no carpenter. I built

the roof for myself, the walls

for myself, the floors,

for myself, and got

hung up in it myself. I

danced with a purple thumb

at this house-warming, drunk

with my prime whiskey: rage.

Oh I spat rage's nails

into the frame-up of my work:

It held. It settled plumb.

Level, solid, square, and true

for that one great moment. Then

it screamed and went on through,

skewing as wrong the other way.

God damned it. This is hell,

but I planned it I sawed it

I nailed it and I

will live in it until it kills me


-Alan Dugan

a reason to lose eloquence

there's something wrong with the vernacular here.

this is not "growing apart"
this is not "out of sight, out of mind"
this is not even "hoping you'll take the hint."

you see
to get a bullet out a chamber
you must pull a trigger.

it is not an act of God; it is not a side effect of time.
it is you
it is your neurons
it is your finger

an order
deliberate and willful.

or
it is you.
it is your hand.
it is our ledge.
and i'm over it.

i wish all my friends could be my friends with the fervent intent
with which you are not.