There are times when I'm afraid
to ask you questions I know the answers to;
afraid of the night rearing
it's heavy ***** as though it
were something I needed
not something I begged
for when I was at my lowest

(and would soon regret after)

There are days when you're
sound asleep; like a balloon
living on borrowed
oxygen

Laying on your side
your eyes flicker
on and off;

taking in the AM
particles, eyelashes
that sweep dreams
back and forth

back and forth
until the dusk
smothers you in
promising scenes

There are times when I am
grateful I get to hear your
voice at the end of the razor-wire

and wonder, (because
wondering brings me
back to a childlike
presence)

if it's really you
that I love and appreciate,

or if it's just a dream
that continues to blanket
me in it's infinite ardor.

I could be in bed right now.

Under the sheets where it's safe;

like the tongue resting firmly
between teeth; presumably
the gaping mouth of
a banshee.

I could call it an early night.

Dream of you, and the
effervescent hell
betwixt those thighs.

I could do
many things;
and yet, it still
would not suffice.

It's safe to say,
'coulds' should
be deleted from
my lexicon.

******,

I forgot to tell you goodnight

I was too tired to open my mouth

too exhausted to form a thought
but many thoughts came on later
that evening; I was worried
you might get angry with my
silence

secretly harbor resentment;

retire to your dreamland
and keep me outside
the pearly white fences;

I'd whimper to come back in;

and I'm sure

you'd hesitate
(like you always do)

before unlocking the gate

and welcoming me
into your garden of good graces.

Something tells me
you never questioned
whether or not
you have a soul
resting beneath
that blanket of
thick, moist flesh

You see, ma
never sang me
a lullaby to sleep,

and now I rest with
weary bones
and crooked teeth

as though they were
toy soldiers
marching down
the streets of a ghost town

an army of woes

and sorrows stacked
so high, you'd think
the aches were
some sort of skyrise

And on, and on
the trembles speak

shaking what was never known
but could be known

if one only
went through the proper channels.

she hasn't slept well these days,
beneath a brand new duvet
she lays on her side,
and then sighs;
tosses and turns
like holy wine
inside the glass
of night

the drip,
drop of glorious
sun arrives;

then ******,
prods, over her eyes

she'll wake up,
reach for the phone

and perhaps snooze
it for ten or twenty minutes

finally awake,
she tumbles like a load
of ***** laundry
(the aftermath
of bad habits)

in the sweet,
sickly aroma
of a day to day
existence;

another morning tucked
in the back pocket
as she makes her way
to the door,

locks it

and takes the
heaviness of dreams
for granted.

I've learned over the years that if you are hurt often, like I am,
Either you become the consummate victim-
Pitiful, cowering, sweet to fault, shamefully spineless-
Or you become wiser, a sharper version of yourself,
A bit meaner, a bit tougher.
You turn from white to gray- not sooty yet, but perhaps a bit charred around the edges,
Maybe even slightly carnivorous, like a flower deprived so long of sunlight that it begins to crave
Other things.
You're not entirely wrong, you know.
There is something in me that stalks the world, it's true.
But not you particularly, darling.
Don't flatter yourself.
I'm for bigger game;

I'm after the devil himself--
I'd like a word.

the chaotic movement
behind the bushes
of my neighbor's front yard

the yelps of a dear
caught in the headlights,

she pleads
for the flesh
to sink down
to the depths

where no man
dares tread

the moon shines
upon bare backs
like the dead weight
inside the flask

two pour into
one

and the hush
comes quickly;

sweeps the night
off it's feet
and lays it to rest

by the curb

or bed;

much like the face
of a newly wed
into his or own
hands.