Running, panting, I would sprint to the alfalfa field
on windy summer days
just to feel the blistering heat blowing across my cheeks
like an oven cracked open.

Maybe I will live in the desert.

In the sandy dunes and hot wind I will find myself
and explore my thoughts and revive my faith.

With sand in my shoes and cracks on my hands
I will walk in Christ's footsteps and drink from an oasis.

I will wander into the desert, murmuring,
"It is late, it is late, it is so very late..."

And then I will wait in the cold for the next day
when I will find relief in the hot air rolling over the dunes.

And then I will sweat.

It's a curious affect, to love hot air
O' wind blow
Find me an oasis, carry me to the water.
My mouth is so, so dry.

You said you hated me.

We could have been the most beautiful pair in the whole town.
You could have had the moon.

Just be cautious: porcelain shatters with ease.

And when you were happy you would be very happy.
I would wrangle in each and every thing that you desired.

Every thing is not every one.

And when you were sad I would press your eyes into my shirt.
Please stain my sleeves with your tears, warm my arm with your sobbing.

I think your tears are painfully beautiful.

And when you were angry, I would never leave.
I would listen, empathize, and always care. But never leave.

Unless you asked me to.

And when you were sick I would mend you to health.
I would travel to the ends of the globe to find a cure.

To keep you alive.

And when you were tired I could carry you.
It would be an honest trip from the sofa to the bedroom.

I'd lift you like air, so you would never wake up.

And when you were high I would never let you come down
until every thought had been traced ten times.

Every inch had been touched twice.

And when you were drunk I would hold your hair
as you empty into the porcelain.

I would marvel at how the moon was not marred.

And when you said you hated me
I would leave to make you happy.

I left to make you happy.

And if you died,
I'd die too.

And that's all I have to say about that.

I want to go for a walk at night.

We can listen for frogs near lakes
or
crickets in meadows
or
bears in the mountains.

Cars in the city.

Then we will come across a dock on the lake
or
a patch in the meadow
or
a tree in the mountains.

My room in the city.

California isn't so far.

Kiss me.

The world isn't that big.

I see the mole.

It lies just south of his petite clavicles,
parenthesizing his fragile neck.

I'd like to find the others.

Moles dotting his figure,
beacons on his frame.

Showing me where to touch.

I'll map them all out,
every last speck.

Just call me the cartographer.

I'll connect the dots, drawing lines,
building routes with my fingertips.

Your body will be mapped like the Silk Road.

But no ideas will be exchanged, nor words spoken.
No empires will be connected across this globe.

Only moles.

It's true,

I think you've forgotten
how to skip rocks
so as not to have them

sink

into that murky, swampy
artificial lake that crosses
beneath the railroad tracks.

down

beneath the tracks there is
nothing but muck and a few
corpses weighted with stones.

below

the corpses at the bottom,
their faces twisted with
decomposition, there is

earth's

body for miles and miles, and only
a little patch of Hell deep down.
The rest of it is has seeped onto the

surface.

Just look at the city and talk to the people.
If this is not Hell, and these are not demons
then did we ever really have anything to fear

after all?

His touch
feels to me as stated:

CALLOUS, WARM, DANGEROUS

hand grazing mine
in a crowd

like water buffalo
to a field
or
timid mice
to weighted trap.

His touch
is hopelessly, listlessly

ELECTRIC

and my body the machine
whose lips thirst for volts.

Tell me, Mr. Milgram,
how many more
clicks
until he is in my
pants and I in his bed?

Smoke slips through his curls
in and up and down about again.

FAST AND ******

his kisses feel as they
barrage my mouth with heat.

Heat, heat, so very hot
that I can hardly
breathe.
Hands in pants
and bodies in shallow tubs.

Water feels foreign in the
hopeless intensity.

HOPELESS INTENSITY

only lasts until the player
**** on his stomach.

I lean past his shoulder
so as not to be
seen
dipping in with my
fingers and tasting his.

Sweet like honey
sans a hint of salt.

HONEY

O baby, won't you take me home?
I think I could love not loving you.

The word 'Montana' has a taste to it.

It is a being, it really is.
There is a spirit in those fields.
And you won't know it!
You won't! Know!

YOU CAN'T SEE

how much it has gripped you,
how firmly it has your heart until you are long gone.
Then you miss it. I miss it, friend, like a distant love.
It is like a massive pylon with bright red ribbon,

INCARNADINE

ribbon wrapped around your wrists.
No matter where you go you will always be connected.
It will always call your name, like a siren
in the seas calling a sailor home

BEFORE

cursing him and
devouring him forever.
Like the earth is to the moon,
distant and gripping,

Montana is my anchor.