You and I will do magnificent things,
For we are the well-wishers
And dreamers of dreams.
We will flower and conquer;
We are the hope-spreaders
That know no bounds,
Our home is the clouds.
We will do magnificent things,
You and I,
Wearing love on the front
Pockets of our coats,
Our pride spread thick across the sky,
Smoothed with emotion like a silvery knife.
We stand in back alleys and laugh,
We look toward sunsets and grin,
We hover in garages and sing
About such wonderful things,
Hope circling like a diamond ring.
You and I,
We are the children of soon,
Watching yesterday's moon
Sink like a vessel-
Wherever we travel,
Our minds are the vestibule.
Tripping the light fantastic,
We will do magnificent things,
For magnificent are we,
The well-wishing dreamers of dreams.

There is nothing
left in my lungs
lingering on taste buds at the tip of my tongue  
underneath fingernails, toenails alike
caught between follicles skin cells or pores
nothing that’s hidden
not anymore
no fragments of letters or commas or ink
no residue, evidence that I could once think.
From the backs of my knees right up to my chest
there is nothing
no evidence
not a single bit left

I woke up this morning, thinking my god I've gotten older.
The edges of my dream, knawed at the corners of my eyes
go back to sleep.
Happy Birthday, July.
I had ***** poured into my hands,
I drank it
for the soul purpose of not wetting the bed.
Let's go for a birthday dinner in November,
get a tattoo of a word I think of the hour before,
smoke a cigar til your lungs get sore.
"My god it is beautiful
that I can still believe in god,
if I choose to."

My night was spent freezing the fat on my body
and listening to a boy, younger than I,
speak about shooting his mother and sister.
Twenty-five minutes, scrolling through pictures
as I listen to a voice devoid of feeling
thinking about how I do not feel.
When I hear a gunshot, I flinch.
When I hear your name, I flinch.
And I repeat repeat repeat
I love your name in my mouth,
the taste of your tongue in my mouth,
the smell of you when I push my lips
scrunched up to my nose.
The scents on my body have changed,
and I flinch when I hear your name.

I thought I'd miss your mouth the most,
worn down teeth all uniform
from grinding them in your sleep,
chapped lips, refusal to use chap stick.
I thought I'd miss your laugh the most,
uncomfortable and weary
unless you were with me,
and I thought I'd miss your body
hip bones making bruises on my inner thighs,
pull me closer closer when you hold me and my hands
never stopped.
This morning I miss the way you smell,
and I can't describe it.
Scent is most closely tied with memories.
I want to smell you on my shirt the next morning
before I even roll over onto my side and kiss those chapped lips,
see those worn teeth smile
feel your arms around me pulling me closer.
I want to wear your shirt to bed,
but it means nothing now that the scent has left.

Wake up, it's 3:07
and I don't think I'm at all what I used to be.
I think in times and have music playing inside me
while I kiss,
trace skin with my fingertips.
Whistling while you snore disrupts the chorus,
stop. I want to wake you up
and say I'm sad now, let's talk.
Dig deep to my core, but the dirt is damp
and it's easy. I haven't even given you a shovel.
I'll unearth myself on my own,
give your thoughts a place to call home
bury it back up again and
send you back to sleep.

Bruises on my ribs from a rock beneath the floor of a tent,
bruises on my neck from your teeth and you have a beautiful
jaw line. My fingertips dip, you say. That isn't normal. And
colors in your eyes are impossible to replicate in my mind.
I'll study your face, the skin on the back of your hands and the
curve
of your bones. That word makes me nauseous. Curve
away from me, grow like a bonsai tree
I say please then whisper apologies
too often
I know exactly what I want but refuse to chase it
because I am temporary, I'll wound you and leave
a beautiful scar. You have a beautiful jaw
line.

All your art?
Your father threw it away,
sculptures of music that my
hands had helped
create.
It has molded in the yard,
cloth I had tied around my head
as I danced and we drank
malt soda. You've always
always always always
always been beautiful.
It doesn't take me to show
you that. You know.
The need of man's hand on the small of my back,
the shallow of my spine and the shallow of
myself is not art.
Your father threw your music in the yard,
your writing stays right on my desk.
Your words cannot be rotting in the woods,
they'll be safe here with me.