More poetry, feedback welcome. . . 
Lakes
by JR
I
There have been moments at lakes, Earth's great windows,
when my life - which spins not with Earth, but away from it,
deep into a human city - has paused.
Ambition and trust get pushed out in a warm breath,
like troublesome thoughts shown by the collar to the door,
too drunk with power for this plain but proud ol' watering hole,
and then sucked back in reluctantly, the duties of life,
like swallowing my sins again and again with a dry throat,
the moon dissolving in the lake like a white aspirin,
and all of us, even the drink, wishing we had somewhere else to go -
where we would not be spread like this,
in particles like jam across the fluid hatreds of the world,
the confusion of a sober mind in a postcard moment,
the sober, sober, sober mind split open like it's own skull
across the riddling silence of the ghosts I've gently placed upon the lake,
the shifting air beneath the dropping of an immense tablecloth,
set like a girl's slip, dropped like a parachute, to the altar of your memory.
II
These desperate realities plume out upon the blackest drink,
transform, then creep up the sand like green water-bugs.
Unleashed upon the wooden stairs, the project of some scout,
they crawl back to my ear like a dainty lover's pink tongue,
the sort that darts about like there's a race to see who will remember
one another more the next time we stare at nothing, with nobody from a place above a lake,
and begin to wonder what Eternity we were looking for in one another's arms,
and how angelic it would have been if this, the dropping of the moon,
my tongue falling to the young librarian's belly, was not in vain.
If ever you were meant to drown here in the lake tonight,
it would have happened years ago.
If ever you were meant to drown away from me into
some drink in some bar somewhere, it would have happened years ago.
If ever you were meant to drown in the eyes of many modern lovers,
it would have happened months ago.
If ever you were meant to drown in the eyes of the world,
and I was meant to watch your vice as it consumed you,
it would have happened years ago.
We have been spread like this, some schoolhouse video of atoms colliding,
and letting go may not be enough to let you go, sex on a desk, friends in tuxedos,
an egg and an embryo, a sober clich? indeed.
III
This lake, and every lake, as if connected in a network of mysterious portals,
the man-made, and the God-made, the hole I never dug to China,
has left me somewhere close to Opportunity and they tell me that
I ought to feel quite lucky. And yet. . .
I see your father and his surgery. I see your future and your death.
I feel the pockmarks of failure. I feel the beckoning, crooked finger of fame.
And every trespass I have ever dealt you has been done behind closed doors.
IV
And the religious weight of life-alone has taken shape in all the graves and constellations
I have drawn out here tonight, their shadows let like restless ghosts of orphans out upon the altar of the lake,
the punk rocker, the invisible tumor, the battering of a young man's head,
the blood beneath the chin-strap, the diploma, the curves above a man's hips, the curves above a woman's hips,
the scars above the spine, the night I waited for you at the lake. . .
Two tents, Sally and Jason cumming in one, and in the other, my head so weary on a jacket,
waiting for you with no hope, knowing you were drunk with him, and always would be.
Now look up slowly at your hands and think what have we done.
There have been moments at lakes, Earth's great windows,
when my life - which spins not with Earth, but away from it,
deep into a human city - has paused.
Planets built on planets, built on planets, built on planets,
building, falling, breathing, building, falling, breathing
building ghosts (falling ghosts), breathing.
Lakes
by JR
I
There have been moments at lakes, Earth's great windows,
when my life - which spins not with Earth, but away from it,
deep into a human city - has paused.
Ambition and trust get pushed out in a warm breath,
like troublesome thoughts shown by the collar to the door,
too drunk with power for this plain but proud ol' watering hole,
and then sucked back in reluctantly, the duties of life,
like swallowing my sins again and again with a dry throat,
the moon dissolving in the lake like a white aspirin,
and all of us, even the drink, wishing we had somewhere else to go -
where we would not be spread like this,
in particles like jam across the fluid hatreds of the world,
the confusion of a sober mind in a postcard moment,
the sober, sober, sober mind split open like it's own skull
across the riddling silence of the ghosts I've gently placed upon the lake,
the shifting air beneath the dropping of an immense tablecloth,
set like a girl's slip, dropped like a parachute, to the altar of your memory.
II
These desperate realities plume out upon the blackest drink,
transform, then creep up the sand like green water-bugs.
Unleashed upon the wooden stairs, the project of some scout,
they crawl back to my ear like a dainty lover's pink tongue,
the sort that darts about like there's a race to see who will remember
one another more the next time we stare at nothing, with nobody from a place above a lake,
and begin to wonder what Eternity we were looking for in one another's arms,
and how angelic it would have been if this, the dropping of the moon,
my tongue falling to the young librarian's belly, was not in vain.
If ever you were meant to drown here in the lake tonight,
it would have happened years ago.
If ever you were meant to drown away from me into
some drink in some bar somewhere, it would have happened years ago.
If ever you were meant to drown in the eyes of many modern lovers,
it would have happened months ago.
If ever you were meant to drown in the eyes of the world,
and I was meant to watch your vice as it consumed you,
it would have happened years ago.
We have been spread like this, some schoolhouse video of atoms colliding,
and letting go may not be enough to let you go, sex on a desk, friends in tuxedos,
an egg and an embryo, a sober clich? indeed.
III
This lake, and every lake, as if connected in a network of mysterious portals,
the man-made, and the God-made, the hole I never dug to China,
has left me somewhere close to Opportunity and they tell me that
I ought to feel quite lucky. And yet. . .
I see your father and his surgery. I see your future and your death.
I feel the pockmarks of failure. I feel the beckoning, crooked finger of fame.
And every trespass I have ever dealt you has been done behind closed doors.
IV
And the religious weight of life-alone has taken shape in all the graves and constellations
I have drawn out here tonight, their shadows let like restless ghosts of orphans out upon the altar of the lake,
the punk rocker, the invisible tumor, the battering of a young man's head,
the blood beneath the chin-strap, the diploma, the curves above a man's hips, the curves above a woman's hips,
the scars above the spine, the night I waited for you at the lake. . .
Two tents, Sally and Jason cumming in one, and in the other, my head so weary on a jacket,
waiting for you with no hope, knowing you were drunk with him, and always would be.
Now look up slowly at your hands and think what have we done.
There have been moments at lakes, Earth's great windows,
when my life - which spins not with Earth, but away from it,
deep into a human city - has paused.
Planets built on planets, built on planets, built on planets,
building, falling, breathing, building, falling, breathing
building ghosts (falling ghosts), breathing.