Boney Falls

Love me
When the Xanax has hit your tongue
Let veils of benzos and whiskey shield
Your stomach from cannibalistic tendencies
Protect the wicker basket of organs swinging inside
From the bump of your heart beating frantic
In the night

It’s ok to spark fires for the sake of burning
Holes through fabric and flesh
We all have to let the light in somehow

Sober or intoxicated
Relinquish the albatross from your chest
Shorten distances betwixt
Your lungs are punctured and mine
Are still working and I
Will breathe for you
If you let me,
Sober or intoxicated,
Perforated or perfect
I want to see the whole of you


By Coach Light

Cliff faces bled into Superior, cozy Scandinavian architecture clung to tree roots and mountain hollows, main street undulates between nature’s skyline and an inherent need to find home. The sun conceded to blue colossus becoming barely visible old bookshops and pottery dens dissipated the remaining light-a softened glow settled about the city like a comforting fog. A kaleidoscope fell in carefree pattern dancing seemingly to the beat of Michigan folding into Autumn, of the work week folding into Saturday evening.
We wandered as aimless as the leaves prolapsing to concrete, exchanging water vapor for purpose in search of continued adventure or fresh brew. Balsam firs slipped from heavenly precipice between our hands like pens or pipes held to mouth in a moment of meditation. Gradually isolation retreated becoming again, encompassed by a feeling of collective presence. Shuttling down narrow streets, sloped avenues everything was fervent, the city was enveloped, now by newborn constellations fluttering excitedly. Music could be heard faintly, not violins or brass horns but jangly guitars and gritty bass lines just as magnificent and soaring as Jean’s Symphony in E Flat. Entirely entranced we followed the beautiful soundscape, to dead ends, dive bars, our feet wrote in cursive as we navigated and traced it to the source- double doors brimming of color and youth in the vein of Dr. Seuss, covered in the hand-prints of children laughing with skinned knees. The doors opened like a theater curtain, revealing a whimsical world of Paleozoic flora clashing seamlessly with exaggerated organs- small parts becoming massive structures sprawling across the ceiling.

Crossing a train bridge, a voice screamed desperately giving a dying exclamation for change. The room was narrow with an ambulance bursting part way through the wall, a cluster of young adults began to dissipate with the growing chant of “Smoke break?”-they were like the seagulls of Nemo, the floor was checkered black and white, we stood on a chessboard or anxiously in a kitchen. In the absence of an audience a trumpet broke out mournfully singing scotch jazz, a walking cello faded in and everything began to erupt once more. Stationary dump trucks came alive, engines roaring with the buzzing lips of college students, painted turtles bathing under fluorescent lamps were named and included in games of hide-and-seek and tag, the bones of dinosaurs were re-imagined as breathing creatures chasing fashionable cavemen. All was frantic yet increasingly harmonious, alive with reverie hidden conspicuously in a two-story building on Baraga Avenue. A knee shaking guitar solo came forth drawing on the prismatic colors enveloping a glistening community. Brass breathed fire yet again and the words were spoken so casually in contrast: “I drink whiskey cuz my baby left me” and we all were there intoxicated on everything happening.

Where We Go

In snow we carved our names

Dipping fingers delicate so,
The initial burst-breaking
Like realizing opposing cadences of breath
Heavy yet humble,
Have synchronized,
Gasp to catch, float swiftly a snowflake
Melts on the precipice of nose and knowing,
A lake becomes palpable,
Transferring heat in exchange
For wet knees,
Written sentences serve as carrier pigeons,
Suddenly we are
In an ocean where nothing is
Said directly
Rather everything is
Implied or assumed,
Twilight eyes granted in spiraling fog
Glistening with
The pale light of waning crescent,
Somewhere there’s a million
Bodies of water
And one
Waves purl over soft beaches of silicon,
Quartz and basalt,
Stones perfect for skipping are scarcely
Scattered about like a pointillistic painting,
Pine trees loom and falter
Stitching tapestries into the water
A scene superior
For diving and yelling
Vernal hymnals into the tender
Flicker of shore-side fires,
Perfect for watching
Night evaporate into morning


In which
Language was spoken
And retrieved
Read back internally
Like a handwritten letter
Each syllable recognized
As a unique characteristic
Of whoever’s speaking,
A single accent
Describes the sand
That fell
As if skin cells spilling
From crumpled jean pockets
In trying to retrieve
A cigarette or smile,
From tongue movements
And hands moved as if
Directing a theater play of puppets,
Bare feet pressed to driftwood
Walking along to the cadence
Of whispers filling night sky
With constellations and bookmarks,
Read a page while the attention is still held-
“There’s enough of us
Lying about
Folding between each matchstick
And moon dance
To make a better version
Of ourselves”