nothing really has stirred me lately
except the only things that do stir

because when I read Abramović
it feels like coming into my own
and when I found O’Hara
I knew the boundless artist
even
on the morning that you called
and we talked about meaning and matter
I bridged such peace to another

it wasn’t when he tied my wrists
or when they bought my drink
it wasn’t at the warring games
or the nicotine haze on the dancing girls
no, it was nothing in the communal soup
of graded action and fraternal caption

it was in the intersections of the sublime
woven in the threads of my hours
nothing has stirred me lately, dear
except the deafening everything.

I don't believe it when they package 4.8%
it's simply nonsensical to be that exact about delirium
as off putting as a promise laid bare
as easily sought as the ring on the wrong finger
as fought as a woman tied down
or up?
Is that how the story normally goes?

Why don't you tell me
under candle lit dinners
in back alleyway racks
where the only thing hung
is what could have been
and what you keep yourself up at night about

as I ride your slick red rimmed eyes
with mine, memorializing
the observant eye caught into a trance
the sublime vs. her abyss
welcome, Odysseus.

****, my love, how I forgot
how it ought to be
and want
when you are the one that cares more
and you drop off
continental
penetrating
like you were that first night
when i said i wanted it and meant it;
and still mean it
where did you go?
domineering and submissive
I wish for now more
than the complacency of your kiss
and the solid midriff in
your hips
the slow lull of your years of conversation
where did you go?
Tell me in a chord
strum it on my heart
I am all yours
and I am so ardently listening.

I’m haunted by a circadian rhythm

It’s unlike any other; it’s a tainted trip and it cycles in a year

this time last year I woke and read and devoured your words

or was it the other way around

I opened each one as it was window slamming into category five winds

but

after management

hours weeks and days later

One things still irritates me like a scratch on the arch of my foot, as it follows me and I pound it into the ground day by day



You - to me - I’d be a measuring stick.

The best one had (had), cherished, longing soaked streams of logic pulled from heart corners


justifying my anger, ruing sadness, haunted,
I’ll sip it slow, manage;
I have no where to be, and no one is asking.

the rummy tin look

over wine drenched fingernails

in a spinning room

entangling red threads of inhabitant heart strings

paper lanterns and cotton currency

rolled tight, deliverance fright

in a sharp inhale; finding winter

as the snow softly fell down

in my mind, in the dots of i’s

the crevice intelligence

of a September feminine cult.