Flies don't stick to etched glass.

Spiders etched their webs
onto windows
with hopes that the sunlight
would make their lives bright.
They crawled on glass,
once sand,
and used lazers to
stake their claim.
They slid around, but
it was alright;
their lives were bright.
The sunshine illuminated
their hairs and warmed
their bodies.
They danced and crawled and slid
as the rays burnt away any problems
that would arise.
They would never fight;
their lives were bright.
But one by one
they started to die.
They starved and
they fell apart.
Dried-up
exoskeletons
on window seals.
The sunlight
made their lives bright.

Bag of Sand

She is not a bag of sand.
She won't keep your pick-up stable
as you drive through winter.
She won't save you
from the coming flood.
She won't hold the curtain
for your performance.
She can't be replaced
when you bring a bag
to the beach.

She can be embraced
and carried
without your back getting sore
if your posture is good.

She can generate her own heat,
and you can feel it
it you understand
she is not a bag of sand.

Open your body

Open your body
and place your organs on ice.
Look at them.
Look at your lungs,
your stomach,
your heart.
Look at your eyes,
looking back at you.
Look at your brain,
sitting helpless
on a melting foundation.
Powerless to ruin
your life.

Burying the Bottle

I'm burying this bottle
next to childhood shame,
pornography and suicide.
Next to sparrows on windshields and
fathers, unconscious and bleeding.
Next to the old puppy,
wrapped in a blanket,
on its way to the vet.
Next to unfaithful mothers.
Next to bright futures and
a bleeding heart,
dripping down a sleeve.

I'm burying this bottle
with the epitaph:
“Here lies a roller-coaster
with too many g-forces
from too many loops
and too many neck-jolting turns.”

I'm burying this bottle
until I need it again.
Or until you are thirsty.

I hope I'm not a stain.

Bags and boxes of garbage
piled and stacked to the point of tipping
the attic is clean
almost
there's still dust in the corner
and those stains on the two-by-fours
will never be gone.

Those stains that still sing
and walk and talk about everything
you have ever been and
everything that has ever been you.

Those stains that cling to your attic's supports.
Those stains that form the shapes of ghosts.
Those stains that you can't see when the light from outside
is too bright.