stay
     
you’re asleep. you twist
onto your back, naked
as an empty parking lot.
so i dress you in

shackles and handcuffs.
i stretch across your open
doorway like a spike-strip.
i clap you awake. i love you
but

you’re not going anywhere. 

dig

i drove her
to this knoll
with a revolver
and pressed my
fingers against
her lips and
shoved her
into this dirt
and spit into
her greasy hair
and told her
i loved her
and told her
to dig.

low on gas

i accelerate into another fight
and tailgate every nasty lie
until she stops in the middle
of a busy sentence and we smash
together and i crumple what she meant
into an unsalvageable final word
captured by news cameras and replayed
on my sealed eyelids all night
as i cruise through bad dreams
searching for an exit sign.

another trashed afternoon at the piano

torch the keys drill the bench
snap the voice
with wire cutters
dream buzzing
blank pages
gut my instrument