In romance
there is
so much
less
so much
left
to touch
upon
to touch
a gone
in romance
there is

Aware of
the hot
and cold
sides of
my heart

Remain
in one
place,

homeostate
—erode them
away— into
cardiomy-
apathy

Manage with
a balance of
beta-blockers
and ace-inhibitors

Prognosis:
still to slip
into syncopal
states, tacky
cardiac
elevated rates

No fingers
hooked in
a waistband
or any hand
holding

We're all
adults here

Deals the
same as
deficiencies
in the blood:
ignorance or
vitamins

Hormones
and chemical
imbalances

Is it its
happening
or that I
allow it to
happen?

Vascilating
affirmations

Signs of
sufficiency
to keep up
the system

Expecting nothing
the only level
of expectation
consistently met

Nice thoughts
of thawed nights
sustaining
slowly culminating
-and therefore
ending- in
Emily's goblin
bee stinging
finally; French
Humbert finding
his tertiary Annabel:
American trash

Exploring
the major
and minor
keys of
poetry

A third up
and half a
step down:

So fine
the lines
widening

like childs
eyes before
fruit

ripe
before its
known that
they're

any
good for you
-as mud for
elphants-

Snacks at
noon

There should be
a bechdel test
for poetry and
poets

It should
consist of
at least two
voices: one
of the self or
some other and
any other
thing
besides a
man

Waistband
hugs little
indents in
the hips in
its full
circumference

Temporary
permanence:
the ridges
mirrored
elastic strands
in fat flesh in
flat flesh in
trapped flesh
the rest in
arrest even
when it rests

A poetical set
of two clauses

or something
-I've never been
good at math-

(speech as
is before it
implies any
poetry)

(the indeterminate,
aleatory
in nature fully
rid of all
things prose)

do they
intersect?
at which point
does X differ
from Y and
does the
M ***** upwards
or down?

checks and
reworking

I've never
been good
at math

Like the
music
I listen
to:
sounds
sou
nds
wh
wha
t at ht
rhy
rhythm
thm to
follow ow
rep
eat rep
rep eating
loops like
hoops
oops

No one to
before
anymore

To think
more than
to do with

The width
of the sun
as remebered
in a memory
-thin as a
road- it
rose in
rows of
somelight

Before us
-around me-
to you, to
no one

Could
or would?

Shook from
the pages
of books,
wood
so thin the
ink peeks
through
due to

Sun so
bright the
blood peers
through
skin so
taut the
veins stay
blue

It's your
birthday today

I did nothing
different and
told no one

Dad texted me
-as if to remind me-
"Today was a special
day for your mother"
And Alex asked only
if dad texted me about
you too

The same plain message.
What else?

I took a final
and studied for another
the rest of the day

Thoughts of
other things
keeps me from
thoughts
of you

But anyway,
happy birthday

Entities, raise
your thoughts
from the ground
before the flood
rises, and
they drown

Empty them
out atop the
surface tension
-buoyant enough-
to float on their
own as a final
sacrifice

The poem reaper
seeks those
already dead
-sleekly-
an idiosyncratic
trait of one of such
life siphoners

Sniffs those out
that reek of
disuse and
neglect

He collects
so that
Divine election
can chose a few
limited atonements
for reincarnation

I do not
want bitterness
in my words

To debase and
defame
Refute and refuse
no one and nothing

True truth
in its essence
transformed
and reformed
-impartial-

Oh wow
much words
so poem
very rhyme

If you pile
enough
on top
it still will
not sink, but
it will be
hidden
away for awhile

I curved
-thighs flat
against the
mat- feet
to my head
and breathed

Felt my sliding
muscles taut
and thought
of you for two
-briefly-
eight breaths

Your hands
around my
neck

I breathed.
Unfurled myself
with an inhale,
...exhale

Were you
afraid
at all

When your
feelings strayed
so far from
your solipsistic
logic?

Free will:
the beauty
to deliberately
decide a choice
and act
accordingly
-illusory-

But the
freeness is
difficulty and
desperation

Smoke separating
into two streams
-blue and grey-
before dispersing

The wind
pushes them
back in from
the window, and
they do not fight
its force
-like me-

I'll bend
and waver
wherever
the breeze
wills

It all feels
false
now

I had loved
you with a
prejudice free
heart
-as they
recommend-
and was
punished for it

I feel a
child:
caught up
in figments
more so than
reality

-Infatuated
and unmindful-
willing and wanting
to have you take
advantage
of me

It must not
have been
you
-I didn't seem
to miss much
of that today-

Bust
your
chap stickless
lips -still
soft- those
I miss

I hear
the rain
so finely

Soothing
like a chord
progression
in harmonic
-then melodic-
in a minor
key

Drops not
waiting for
permission
to fall recklessly
-jettisoned in
the wind-
to the
ground

Small disasters
are small marvels

Like how a wave
can stretch its
neck and look
around so
effortlessly

Must gaze
in temporary
wonder

An anomaly
amidst the
ordinary

Like gold teeth

In the winter
when the fire's
alight and
warm

What do we
really run
from in the
cold?

What are we
returning to
in the spring?

Is it God
is it war
is it love
is it life
or the world?

Floating  
like a
speck of
snow
in the
rain
-dissolving-

Que
he perdido?
Tú -claro-
pero que mas?

Ojala que
no es nada
mucho o
importante

Como
nosotros
fuimos

Basic
mathematics states:
it's just two
bodies
-merging into
a finite set
temporarily-
equating
to two bodies
again

No change
-the only
thing that
remains-

Two sides
and the
ego
needs a win

Sinistral:
It's fine
-having
to switch
arms at the
end of
the dance-
and tiring

No blame
-the only
thing left
remains-

Frigorific:
the oversized pores
in the windows
and the
paucity of
you

I diluted
the piles
of bile
in my organs
with half
a bottle
of water

As once
I woke, -felt
the blob of
thickness
sloshing about-
knew it'd be one of
those mornings
on my knees
before the
royal throne

I still
taste
sour acid
and
the miasma
is still
swirling

Surprisingly
so,
my preparations
have done me
a great service
-hours of
dictation-
as I
feel
relatively well
-perhaps a
little stunned
by the timing
and method-

A measly
text:
but I
suppose it
was fitting
-a meager
end to
meager
efforts-

Newly waxed
legs
still have
patches

Even no
shave November
has its loop
holes

What do
my words
taste like?

Do they
fill
you
-are you
full of them-

Are you
sick to
your stomach
of it all
by now?

If poetry
were
currency

We would
exchange
goods
for prose

Tip with
metaphors
or
similes
-if you're
rich-

Authors
on the
stock market
-portfolios
of long poems-

It'd finally
be like
how money
feels

How long
should a
poem live?

Is its life
expectancy
dependent
upon the reader
or itself?

Can its
parts
wear
down?

Does death
treat literature
more kindly?

Alas,
the poem
reaper
has been
begotten

And
set loose

Not even
ink can
live
forever

I woke
withal
the rain
-like snow-

It fell in
ablutions
around me

Paris
est-ce que
voudrais
boire une
verre de vin?

Sucia
ciudad
llena de
las filles y
los hombres
y moi

Dans mon
chambre
-alone-
despierto

I remind
myself
that you
don't want me
-you don't
want me- I
remind myself
nightly

As day
flits through,
the memory
grows weak
to remember...
want me,
...don't you?

No

I must
remind
myself
nightly

Pigs
were
not milling  
about in the
mud

It had
dried up
and they
were forced
to bake in
the sun

Hey,
free bacon

Fields
of my
ancestors
-stalks of
cane sugar-
surrounding

It yields
yearlong:
for the sun
-garish- in
its wake
leaves thirst
quick
to slake

know better than
to fall for a poet, and
a poet to any other:
we are oceans where
deserts should be
-drowning-

And the allure to swim
seems swimmingly swell
but the ocean is not still
it swells. Cacti pickling
where
coral reefs budding
should be.

Yet sand is
sand and it
sinks all the same
so yes, within
-I suppose-
there is
some desert
suffering from me

Who'd ever believe a drunk ****,
a stupid ******* *****, a tease
Indeed.

I suppose I still am

I cried
when I read a small
poem by Zukofsky, and
well here it is:

Wire cage flues
          on
the roofs:

Paper ash —whole
        sheets
  in gusts—

Flawed by winds
           fly
like doves.

At first it seems nothing,
but sing them softly on the lips:
Something quintessential
something I'd not yet encountered within
my twenty years of life. Newness.
And from something writ long before me.
There were others, I know this
there are many amongst us,
yes, I remember

Once, I was not
alone. And yet
suddenly
—all at once—
I am alone.

I see it
-the poem-
and it sees
me from within
myself as well.
It tells me to write

not about things
that have meaning, but
to write things that
have meaning:

The stone and
the face of the stone,
and the voices
within it too

I needed
to start anew:
A poet should have
a stance, not just
influences and a
romantic heart.

We are already
few
and too many have
gone before us.

Let me hypothesis
and theorize the following
until my death:
Is it the poetry or
the meaning of the
poem that is most
important?