One year, 365 days and I 
touch every magnet I see
my blood purifies, rolls with new intensity.

According to the Surgeon General
there are three ways we can proceed:
I lock myself in your teeth
or I forget my middle name--
or I dig my toes in your fur,
the darkest weasel of the woods.
War dancing with my heart. 
I tell it that this hurts--
it’s ok. Not forever.
I can grit my teeth. I can.
Be the proudest man.
Be the loneliest monk--
I want you in Los Angeles 
where the sun casts no shade.
To sleep with and embrace me
that small scrap of fog in the tree.

*

Here is my pick-up truck fantasy
where the food trucks have all the ponies
and the coffee is laced with crystal honey
of all four seasons--winter, spring, summer, fall musk.

A giant daddy puts a fire out in the field
where I’ve been asleep for three years. Daddy!
This is the first hug I’ve gotten all day.
This is the first goat I’ve ever killed.

I used to be ok sleeping on a thin mat. 
The mice would run across my hair. The phone would ring.
But when I woke on the floor a year had passed.
Is this how the continents move?

So now I’m begging you
Eat more potato chips
Don’t regret the diaries. Photograph the clouds.

*

Quyen’s Poem

These characters mean a lot to me.
Will they make it? Who needs food badly?
A lot changes. I stop wearing sambas. Choke on your hair
before I get belligerent at the bar with old Ben Franklin.

Yeah. You cops win. Keep your guns.
I’m sick of picking shit out of my teeth
when we sell our shares the terrorists win
a blue kimono from the vending machine. I want a hoho.

I want a job with benefits. I want a wife in a bungalow
and a meatloaf and a bb gun. Some shish kabob.
Do you know what I could do with a shish kabob?
Do you know the power of a grilled meat?

It’s late. Carry me piece by piece to the freezer. 

I don’t need a brain. All I want is to keep my smile.
It’s like we are already married.
I put out your ironed shirts, you spoon me at night.