I dream of being organized. of being out of pain. of having a gut full of crystals: opiate residue. Like the crystals that consumed the box for the oil gusher in the gulf. crystals in the so deep it's so cold. At what point does one decide -- that's it: cut me. It's been 5 months. Is that too long to wait? Not long enough? There are moments when my mind is available, and I feel like myself, and I look at the date and I can only wonder what I've been doing. What did I do during February? Was I here? Did you see me?

clean scissors, I beg

for rescue, for a pin

to tend the pain: pink

not newly, slit red

then blue. In purple

liquids I store

the pulse: thump

thump in the dark

narcotics. Fizz-

winged, my fissures

shore: approach

the winking beacon

of a still-life body:

smooth and porous, pried

free from every

pinching reign: stung

veins and stony ventricles.

The Poetry Booth

click click click

A few kind words can go a long way. Each time someone is kind to me, I feel like breaking. The mirror silence of a still pool: ripples the weight of great lakes. Their glaciers staggered down. We measured the mountains. This small sadness I can hold in my hands, taste it on my tongue. Salt showers and the glow inside bones -- lit up, electric signs. The desert is the pain of home, the home away. This withholding -- it makes me long for it all the more. Sympathy is a craving. The stone around us turns to ice.

Don't say "spill," say "gusher."

I cant stop thinking about the oil, the pressure, the spindletop, and how deep below the water's surface the top of the well is, and then the depth of the well itself. I watch videos and there are pop-up ads for free oil stock reports and the coast guard GI bill. The crooks are hiding in plain sight. On the major news network, the reporter talks over the academic. There are so many things that we are not allowed to see.