His tongue is searching my mouth
for who I used to be and I’m staring at the
Amber lampshade above my bed—

His sideburns are thinning, just in the last year,
I have committed this particular view to memory
many times, his arms; Liana vines enveloping my waist, ankles tucked around my calves,
I am a tiny animal
between his limbs.

I am memorizing the way his hairline fades into his neck, the shape of his forehead, the bistre shadow of his browbone in the foreground—

I do this to remember, I do this to hide you away
In an atrium, in the pulmonary trunk
I keep everyone there, so when they’re gone
when they are inevitably gone—
I can visit,
A softened recollection where I’ve allayed the pain of letting go—

I knew this would happen,
but Ive touched;
I’m touching you anyway,

What is it worth—
if I can’t remember?

You’re kissing me,
Im easing you into
my heart—

You always wanted that.

If not for a lifetime,
walk just a few steps with me.

Not asking for the entire age,
Spend just a few moments with me.

Share a little of your story,
listen to a little of mine .

Even if not you ,
your memories will stay with me .

In the lonely journey of life ahead,
they will be my companion.

Endless are the skies – deeper are thine
eyes.
Breathless nearby. Could I just die?
The hollow heart - the weight of air.
I glance thee -  heaven I see.

The sorrows I held -the dreams I fear
The nights I cry - to thine eyes , I pray.

I have all the fortunes, the riches,
The world knows me for great fame.
I can visit the mountains, the beaches,
For there is not a sole to blame.

I don't have the greatest wealth,
The world may not know my presence.
Mountains, the beahces, I may not take their breath,
The world's elegance, I may not have their sense.

The mountains, I savour alone,
The beaches, I savour alone.
The entire globle is where I roam,
Never to find a place I can call home.

I live in normalcy, it might seem no strain,
I don't experience luxury, it's a life quite plain.
Every moment is spent with mates, with family,
Their timeless love is what makes the ordinary, extraordinary.

i want to peel your skin back
and reveal your deepest sweetness.
to look at your veins
and memorize their paths.
maybe then i’d understand
why you are so rough on the outside.
it takes a lot of work,
digging your fingernails into the flesh,
pulling and pulling until you are bare.
but it is all worth it;
to visit your center,
to break past what conceals you,
and take you apart
slice by slice.

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

A past life—
a spirit reincarnate,
a love tethered,
a body,
caged—
dammed in feathers.

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

Souls tied,
one unearthed,
tears slipping in flight—
a forsaken rebirth.

it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.