first poem about lightning

distances have been crocheted and dust

built up in the rope. between dark hills i watched 

while you felt sorry for yourself. there are patterns

in the forks of lightning that reflect the i ching 

and whether we’re what we call ourselves 

for you i’d never come up short

you’ve heard somewhere my destitution

is the pride of our nation’s capital region

but i may still be a toothache and i may 

cause you to dream of tall grass and knives

clairvoyance and purpose are simple stones

on window ledges. my fear of the immaculate 

is all i can talk intelligently about

but somehow women still think i have an answer

like somehow the water won’t stir up the sand

let’s watch the lunatics eat pot pies at a picnic table 

while the weather is nice. no one’s ever told me to 

give it a rest but then i’m just the lobby shoeshine

i saw you anchoring the news last night at ten

i couldn’t stop laughing at the clothes they'd put on you

fluorescent lights and smoke fill up four undecorated walls

i’m tearing entire pages off a rack of magazines

my cat died only once he’d seen me cry on the floor

i guess it was what he’d been looking for

one day my thoughts will look like prayers again