Van gogh said
there's no orange
without blue

My bed says
there's no sleep
without you

I ain't drinking
nothin but that Molly water

Blow the beat up
like its canon fodder

See these sons?
I'm they father

Bless em up nice
like my name Jehova

Afterwords, I stuff
myself back
within myself--

pleated coils bending
like knees,
with ease,
like they've been on
tippy toes too long--

A too flexible and
overly sensitive
jack in a box:

One whose chest gets too
excited at the turn
of a handlefull of gears
until the lid
pops off

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?

God **** it all
if everything with
you isn't some form
of instinct or reflex

Where is the oui
in we-- in yesness
or togetherness?

There may be a
sense of you and I
a semblance like

a reflection of the
self in the mirror
in a place in time

If oui tried to be
we could be a way
without you and I

My muse:
where is all the
poetry on periods?

Where is the modern Shakespeare's
"Shall I compare thee to an
Always pad or Kotex?

So absorbent of my
love and ****** fluids."

What tender hands
and lovely finger pads
thumbing cloth and
phone screens:

If tender buttons can
be pushed through
a buttonhole then

a rigid zipper
might also
bend and sigh

His lips touch
mine for the
first time, yet

they seem familiar:
like his fingers mindlessly
making mine some about to
turn page corner of a book

read again;
but I don't
mind it

Lungs in the sink
mixed in with
the pink

smoke slinking
gray tincture
prescribed

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

Cold front
approaching
-shivering,
shaken carten
left out too long,
sweating-
La niña
-soft and
warm-

Inevitable collision,
crumpling and
languished
intermingling

-milk spilling
upon the
counter top-

What jealous
freshness

wants is
the tickle

of microbes
from meatstink

At times I think
to write you some
dumb love verse like:

...to feel you pull me closer
in our sleep, as if you were to
keep me for more than the night...

And in that pause I see that it is
indeed some dumb love rhyme, so I
decide to **** my words swiftly with a
sharp, definitive line

God willing to
play the character
and dress us up accordingly

I want puce gloves and
green boots: a contradiction

Do I contradict myself?
very well then, I contradict
myself

Hello lone star,
not too far

I was you once
you were me

See there,
other star

I was you once
you were me

Another dream
of the other me being
a super ****
-jellyfish hand
floating unt
ut up-

Hatred for
started strategized
conversations-
conversion converted
conviently ate up,
satiated and satisfied

Third tooth
chillen on land,
dryness

My world hasn't crumbled like
a granola bar. I'm ok.

How precious death
and senseless life

when wives should
lie not for her man in
pleasure but in duty

dies giving birth
to his children

who will make more

Breathing expands the
belly and the roots

At the top of the head
contracts the greater force

Extends into the toroidal
field until they resonate

A little higher, a little tone
sharpener, a little lquiet

Are you done
making waves in
my body yet?

It doesn't like
to be upset. My
heart can't take it--
in the literal sense.

It's like why I can't really
listen to heavy metal music
even though I can listen to pretty
much anything else. There's something
about the vibrations that make my heart hurt,

and it's the same with you.

I **** the game, like
I'm Frankenstien's Monster

Tack the ***** to this rocket,
then I launch her

I'm ****** at this.

I skipped class yesterday
and today and haven't seen

you in a few days because you
won't let me and that's valid.
I still wish I could help some

how I think of leaving you at
least once every day but
all I can think to say is
I love you and I'm yours.

My stroke of love
goes against your grain
and I am bade to withhold
in the presence of equals and
betters regardless of the claim

And the needs being
met with knees in the chest

I am uneasy.

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

The opposite
of deja vu
is to become
unfamiliar
with what
you are well
acquainted

Which will
happen
to you
after I'm
released?

Be struck by
some sort of
jamais vu upon one
chance meeting
and recall a
vague nothing
-millions of
quick kisses,
itchy chins, and
naked cuddling-

Be reminded
of how far
time can pull
two people apart

One quarter lady:

Hepburn coquetry
-approachable yet
unattainable- and
Victoria Secret
silk nightgowns
handed down

The rest:
a complete
**** show

You say my name when
you see my face, but
you don't know me.

I shied away--just
in case-- but you
couldn't see me.

I spell your name
like a song, but you
don't hear me.

You don't know
me at all.

Like some thread
upon a line,
I can't let go

Cast seaward then
reeled in- but not for
lack of trying

The spool too taut,
a knot in twine, to
set the thing unwinding

What the actual
****. I sit like a
sit if sit were a noun.

Where are the words
to write? If there's a
muse, then *******.

Backslide like the sting of
belt hide against my
black backside

When I think of us
now, it reminds me of my
old religion:

a devout Catholic Christian.

My hands pressed together
--begging--
with my knees on the floor

for attention.

The light of your glory
hid under a bevy of bushels
--where it's most protected--

at a safe and
comfortable distance;

as the giving of a glow
diminishes its flame,
and the hunger pains for fire
enough to ***** it away.

When I think of us
now, I think of my
new religion:

I sit with palms
open and ask softly:
to be kind and beside me.

I smolder in embers
within a phoenix pyre;

it keeps me warm
and fed and requires
very little:

some feathers, some ash,
my happiness

Two generations
removed from
the Good

But Good
is not the point
of poetry

Music is the incunabula
-the first traces- of poetry

an attempt to put the sound into word,
not in the lyrical sense: some set rhythm and
rhyme and words, no,
in a biblical sense

in the shape and form:
in a transcription of
minor and major lifts
and dips

I can feel
by myself

I feel clean hair
because mama always said
to wash it when you feel sick

No tear shampoo was a
******* lie and so
were we and so we'll be.
Sick from unwashed hair.

Mi parte favorito
es cuando yo
puedo quemar
el trozo del papel
-poco linea del
rojo y ***** y
entonces gris-

Canción jugando
en el fondo

I'm not looking for someone
to marry, but should I be?

What kind of excuse is 'I'm a piece of
****'? Are you stuck the way you are?

What type of end is beginning?
No need in talking of known knowns.

I saw him
for the last time
I'll see him
in awhile.

He's late by a day
and three hours and
on his phone reading
sports articles in french

with me tucked up
under his arm like
a football, cookies

in the oven for
his long drive.

He kisses me more
than usual and says
he'll miss me and that
we'll be fine, just fine
and I believe him.

He leaves, but
forgets his treats
and returns,

then turns and
leaves again.

Avoid force with
such tender bodies

Bound board by
board of senses  
and sensations
mek it set like cold
to snow

So be tender
with sensitive skin:

A coat keeps
warm in winter wet,
Stay singing and soft,
jovial in Springsun

I will put you
first
--which tends to
be the fatal flaw--

He doesn't know I will
write poems about him,

since I've stopped writing
and have stopped writing poetry:

and what is a writer that
doesn't write? a scribbler,
a note taken and thrown away.

He doesn't know I'll write
poetry for him,

and my mother and grandmother's
voices chorus warning in my ears:

don't be the one who
loves more

I can't wait to be
loved fully

To be worthy of
excess and effort

I throw
the *****
like a tantrum

He say my
name like
a mantra

I only listen
to K and J or
City pop
as of late.

I suppose even
the ears can change
its taste,

refine and become
a picky eater of what
it wants to ingest:

a palatable beat
with round sounding
words, the occasional english;

something lit,
a bop

You make me feel
an unwashed mouth:

A fuzzy little tonguing
familiar stale taste,

some temporary state:
a place meant to be erased
after waking, before lunchtime

Nothing has changed.
Everything happens to stay
the same in an inane way.

I ****** up when I said
I love you after a careless laugh,
but you waited and then said it back
like you hoped instinct would be intact.

Every kiss stains
where you leave it,
and it changes nothing.

Every kiss fades
when you leave it.

Your fingertips
lift up my lips
at the corners

But I smile
because I want to,
I smiled before I
met you

It shakes my little
soul to be with
you, and

I'd smile because
you want to,
I smile because
I want to

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?

I've less
patience than
I remeber,

and my day
is sufficiently ruined

The ocean and I
lie in bed awake all day
No bleak place or space