the sun also rises
with the smoke,
while the coffee drinkers
scatter dewy dawns.
we're smoking your last cigarette
letting soreness seep into
concupiscent sluggish limbs,
as sleep-cornered bedroom eyes
melt their waxy redness
into the cruelty of morning light.
insipid tongues, chapped and swollen,
speak in strokes of satin whispers;
breathy simple silken strands
"you're so soft"
with moth-wing gentleness
to evanesce the daybreak chill.
how i yearn to remain
in between the days,
hazily hidden in the serenity
of our echo-quiet secret place.
i am roused by paltry gasps
in the furrow of my consternation--
is the puzzling weight of vacuity,
my shapeless existence
where the wind has blown the weakness from your heart
and you've settled like ceiling-fan dust;
invisible, i asphyxiate
in sultry bated breaths
like the acrid smoke that seems to leave your lips
so gleefully anesthetized
in our secret place
where we pollinate the emptiness,
legs sticky with desire
and rapt with a fleeting symbiosis.
we awaken in ambiguity,
the taste in my mouth
is your yesterday's heaving tongue.
little lamb, sad-eyed baby,
thrush with too much touch,
always leaving in that heavy-eyed hurry.
your sweater brushes against my face,
i smell the paint that's stained a cold and ringed finger.
my senses are frenzied and willfully discordant
until you open the front door
and dissolve away--
dissipate into the realness of the day.
in my vapidity, i wait.
fullness fleeting, prurience redeeming.
Friends like fickle timepieces,
I'm studying these circling arms.
Today we're rubbing off the gold,
we're turning pockets inside-out
as I'm peeling off your clothes.
The dandelion seeds are dancing,
tube between your teeth
lifting up the bell jar
to release the waning fumes of me.
into shapeless smears on my white ceiling
I'm waking up
to shapeless smears on my white ceiling
The dewy density of days
between our poems spoken wet and blooming
is just a thin and runny equinox
where sweet abstraction
becomes messes uncontained.
My fingertips and lungs are stained
with your stale and flavorless tepid rain;
hands still moving though I've stopped winding.
I don't know where, I don't know why
nostalgia shriveled up and died
now I'm just remembering.
you can't always wring love out of wanting to save someone
you're left yearning to be pocket change
rubbing subtly on her thighs forever.
in vexatious clinks you sing
of your forgotten value
my forever affliction:
tripping on the blanks.
wake up tasting your thrush;
still feel like smiling
i guess i'm alone
but suddenly i feel filled
with "it will be fine."
experimenting, picking a single word and trying to write haiku about it
i am satiated sinful--
who cares more?
that we've been scorching bliss
and grafting these
blameless bittersweet distractors
like we won't hear thunder-
hiding from the condescending constancy
of raindrops on the tin garage
i will swallow you
until my belly rumbles
enough leaky roofs,"
filling me with sloshing
of our tranquil dampness,
a shivering placidity in
our secluded synchronicity.
setting fire to the misplaced,
of a warm, well-adjusted haven.
"i gave you that sweater."
yes, and as it drapes me
loosely like a lover's grip
i feel so small and sheepish.
silent, sullen sinews
that i have sunken into,
though: "i'm so glad you are here."
yes, words fall out
faintly from my coward eyes about
that when you left there'd be
little saporous pretty prisms
dragged through ashen bones
to place your cloying melt
on my shivering paper skin:
your sticky face,
tongue stripping strangling,
char-chipping my caramelized blisters
from the burning maraschino hum.
Bubbling up whiteness
like our eyes unfocused,
hands moving unaware
spread the chapping numbness
over our senses, succumbed.
i am the blood in the sink
you are piss on the bathmat
wash me off so we forget this
failed flailing at repose's feet.
("maybe we can make each other's
winter's feel all right.")
no, i cannot make you quake
in my mocha movement,
draped in careful quirk
fantasies of argyle.
drawing your fingers into motion
along fantastical bony parts,
effulgent with the newness
of thrush april wetness,
i have never felt so pasty dry.
do the bad days outweigh the good
when you speak into the corner of my collarbone?
"sometimes it hurts to be this damaged."
could i whisk you up in the Kwanzan cherry blooms
though your body still feels imbued with winter?
"i've never met someone so afraid to be open."
must i crave the insatiable taste of salt,
gravelly crumbles of your encumbrance?
"i love this moment, with you and me, right here."
(in the morning, i am still syrupy stuck
and the sequestering sun washes me off.
clean from the vodka taste
that slipped off my sordid soliloquies
into submissively diffident lobes.
i'd love to turn myself off
whenever you're near)
your unforgiving body, supple
when rolling through my fingers:
the sands of you
are so cold when the night comes.
and in the blackness of your empty beach
i rub driftwood together
fruitlessly trying to extract
a single spark of fervor.
in the brisk silvers of the moon,
i wish your warmth would stay with me
for more than the time it takes
your body heat to leave the sheets.
i will forever pick these slivers from my palms,
stinging every time you crawl naked
to place your body on my blisters again.
your calloused fingers
building centuries of soul
splinters of the world
laugh into the night
wind carrying whiskey wisps
your authentic air
with you i am small
not a child but a songbird
cooing at your strength
the sun has wrapped you up
leather coat and golden blonds
clothed by nature's love
when you nurture me
beneath your confident touch
i feel i should run
i'm sorry for me
i don't deserve any of you
sweet primal lover
you leave me tasting so metallic
i'd always pictured such softer hands
when you smoothed me over
in daylight dreams.
but i am wedged in comfort's drawer,
corners dig into my hips
as I wheeze a stale warm release;
clouds that lift me in between
bated breaths and rumination
of time poorly spent.
4/24/13 journal freewrite
straddling the thrum
fall asleep on the couch.
stretching and yearning for you
fed by your power
the sun sees all shame
trace yourself on my petals
i suck the dirt dry
sweet kiss of winter
when I need to be alone
wither, please, for now.
crawl to me in spring
pollen all over your face
i want to smell you
your roots on my roots
pluck you from your comfort zone
toss you in compost
shut the blinds on me
as the sun i tend to feel
like i'm far away
on the wet cement
i shared myself in the dark
passed a cigarette
one bike ride so far
solitude is still sweetness
my legs are throbbing
in the chirps of morn'
i hear their frantic bird songs
crawl through my dreamscapes
dragging your silver heels
through my recursive grays.
scraping the grime from my
i follow you into the clarity
of our bittersweet meanderings.
you'll find me in the lull
between comfort and composure.
i awaken in the hum of your absence,
clinging to your static repose.
and in the lingering shame
of my throbbing, wanting
a more immutable calm,
i am feeble-minded and floating
through the day
like a fleeting fever.
feelings dissolving like dreams into the day.
in my dream i was loved by a stranger.
i woke up to a face blurred like a rare thick fog
but warm hands--their visceral rapture--
stayed heavy in my sandbag morning.
every word, every song, i felt the stranger.
indulging again in the evanescent memory:
supple nothings traced from lips.
their gentle parting in the name of desire.
i was loved.
You pause to tell me
"Fools rush in,"
then tilt a beer into your labret;
a tiny clink and
your long practiced swallows:
I tremble with the aliveness of the room
and the miles you've traveled
just to turn up my volume.
chicago muse, 2012.
'This is the room one afternoon I knew I could love you/and from above you how I sank into your soul,' Jeff Mangum croons through the crackling speakers
like the coyness of corner smiles,
I am exposed
to your bedroom,
and the snug universe you've built within.
Cross-legged on your bed
I hear your nervous, careful stories.
Spoken into fidgeting fingers, silken wrinkled
bedsheets debauched and re-washed--
your words fall into them so easily
like you've found benevolence in their silence--
their softness as language.
Imbibing every ounce of you,
I wish to endure
like the canvases that span your wall.
But I dissolve back into winter
as you regain your right mind.
The ascending stairs creak
hungover and meek
someshittytimes i can't distract myself from the inspiration i draw from a single earthly being.
There isn't much sky
in this pallid, stale cocoon
no greens nor greys, no electric branches
searing fragile, barren walls.
But the heady, sagging scent of moisture
suggests a storm--
yes, there was once me:
a turbid bloom, an opportunist
exhausting avidity in one overarching spill.
As I rolled through your gutters,
flippant and bleeding into everything,
you rose with the dryness of the day
and spoke of your immurement,
the feebleness of my mold and mildew.
poem 2 from "favorite words in the English language" impromptu collection