You like to say:

"I get baby guts
in the morning."

This means
you're not going to be drinking
for awhile.

I hold your hair
while you puke.

And you bring me Tums
and ginger ale,
as I hemorrhage
stomach acid
in the perfect acoustics
of porcelain.

There is
a star
named
us.

From
us
to
fusion.

Today
we ate flowers.

A petal
fell into your coffee.

"You know
what's crazy babe?"

"What?"

"You scare me
with your love."

"That's such a waste,
come here,
I want to tell you something."

You scooch
over to me.

I just want to
know
your sticky skin.

You just breathe close to me,
all night long.

Our words
use our bodies
for mouths.

I'm not ashamed to say
that we really know
how to ****
each other.

And for all you *******
love is so physical
that words
and eternal sentiments
break it down.

I am afraid
I could exhaust myself.

But then
little tiny dots
of rain dribble
basketballs
on my cheek.

And the sport
begins
with a buzzer
and a knock
on my door.

There is a melancholy
piano,
with a whole bunch of dust
like a film
of fear
in your corner,
that you like to play
every night
in the purple dark.

But I sleep,
holding you,
and I don't seem fragile
or under
some
formal demand.

Maybe
there can be
two types of will,
one for fear
and
one for
contentment.

You win the day,
with your ability
to will
certain things
into being.

Purple dark
ravishes.

We lay on the bed
and I can smell your hair
not fragile at all.

Bacon.
Eggs.
Cheese.
Bits
of
chicken parts.
Lion
teeth.
A feather
from a king's headdress,
given to you
because you told him
"Isn't this just a stupid ritual?
I was just wondering that."

I like the way your fingers tighten
around my fingers
when you talk
and I happen to be close by.

It's funny,
this poem was supposed to be about
breakfast,
going to the zoo,
and going to see the "Mayans"
and their stupid
fake kings.

We are becoming
a
very
stupid people.