Van gogh said
there's no orange
without blue

My bed says
there's no sleep
without you

One quarter lady:

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

The rest:
a complete
**** show

What is it? What's wrong?
It must be me.

An inability to think or speak
directly except a certain assertion:

Do not write poetry about him,
do not write poetry about him,

do not write poetry about him,
do not write poetry about him,

do not write poetry about him,
do not write poetry about him

Tossing words like Serta sheep over fences
to force the eyes back into sleep

A body exposed or
naked for pleasure
not yours: beauty

I feel the earth
stilling, and
so I become
still

Close the eyes
to give it a try:
Florida sun
vibrant and warm

Sensations known
but not felt

It was -indeed-
and that is
all it was

Love proves
inadequate at
every turn

****** niggling
over stupid
****

Shed no tears

Ain't like he
crying over
you

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

Water is
so filling

up fruits and
bodies of oceans
like people

Ways to
be as
honest
as possible
without
becoming
existentially
depressed: cloud
watch alone
at night, float
in a body
of water (with
a minimum
of 70%),
don't pick
the prettiest
flowers,
listen to
music you
hate

We all wear clothes,
and lick our lips
against the cold.

As a child things close
with a ziplock zip, and grass
made you a woodland nymph.

A sentiment arises on the first
day of school—and you say: never
let me go or let me go at once—

With a stubborn tug
in the passionate bones
long gone by lunch

We hit
the hay,
you hit
my face

Well **** me if
I haven't had this

memory before of a
love expanding during
its reconstruction.

The purpose of such
a thought is to make it
like a poem- all pure and
full of the meaning its given,

and I remember the point
of remembering: to whittle
away the excess and reveal its
ideal form, but what if

it gives you a back kick

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

What am I doing?
I am washing dishes

I am nowhere else but
where I am now

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?

What do you do
after you've taken a bite
of the world and found
it unsavory?

Call the waiter to
return it and
eat the sun
instead

And if little
proclivity for
spicy food then
opt for dessert:

lick the moon
to its gooey
center

What is that thing
that looks better
than it looks

like it gets better
than this?

True: it's a never-
lasting thing,
like a countdown

What jealous
freshness

wants is
the tickle

of microbes
from meatstink

What's not
torn down

by whatever
forces decide
to destroy:

The nails
worn with
yellow gloves

yes, and the
walloping water
that wicks wet,

is the same
sharp dry bursts
that blows up

cupcake confetti
through Pinkie's
party canon

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

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

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

Where the thought thinks
first of itself is where the Universe
first ****** itself into existence

The old ball and chain
tethered to the ankle is not enough
for me, but it's fun to skip with

The vibrations of skin
friction beneath the fingernails
must be a sounding of the ankh

Another few days tacked on
with hardly even a thought

While I
try to find
some peace
of mind that
could be mine,

the roots of
weeds tangle and
twist inside;

And time
goes by

Who am I naked for?
Truth be cold and so

shrivels the little member
with a whimper and perks up

******* ****** dry in
the night because the benefit
of co-bedding is not having
to wake to feed

a cry-- a simple sing-song slur

Whose fan do you service
so regularly and generously?

Which senpai do you hope
and need to notice you?

Whose moral maiden’s ****
are called to duty?

Whose little dog
to wag a finger
at today?

-Bone swallowed,
slid and stuck in
the wrong pipe-

What is enough
to feel better?
an equal distribution
of humors throughout
ones constitution

Scales tipped
by the lilts of
a pointer

Whose *** do you
tat for up the sleeves

Of a fine charlatan
selling tinctures and
such

Who's that on the
dial of the radio?
-a twist to the left
and sounds come
out rejoicing-

Immortal thoughts voiced
crossed coming through
the wiring

Loose **** turned
to set the tape
rewinding

Winged migration
to flee from migraine
irritations:

I was the shadow
of the waxwing slain,
flung and flew through
wire flues on the roofs

To be some happier
glove, not on hand

Would it be
too vain
to make love
in a museum?

Pinned to a
wall amongst
Degas dancers
and Pissarro
landscapes
where I'd
dare to be
some work of
arduous work
for you

Would you want
to know or seize?
Are you able to

see which arms belong
to me and—can cling
to love undeserved—
in the meantime

I grow tired and sleepy
from forgiving you, so you
let me be your blanket, with
my head in the crevice of your
neck, and tuck yourself in with me

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

I suppose I still am

You and me
are like red
and green:

Good for
Christmas

But what
about the rest
of the year

"You are likely to
succeed if you try!"

Perhaps that's why
I find a part of the
self in verbal form

At the subatomic level of
this and that there is a Platonic
good vibrating like mad, like a
mountain flower

Saying "Yes, I said yes,"
will you yes to its yes?

You know how I am,
but you don’t know why.

My mom would probably say something like
“Two unno fight like **** an’ dog,”

And I would agree, and quarantine myself
away to keep you from getting too sick of me.

I never thought it mattered if we agreed on
anything, as long as we said “yes” to each other

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

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

You said you had
some choice words
for me, even though

I said we wouldn't
speak again.

You asked what if
you gave up on your
hopes and dreams
and aspirations or

What if I gave
up mine or what
if we could compromise?

But I've let you
go already. We cycled
too many times:

I needed all of your
love, and you only
wanted some of mine.

"Still... I wonder," you said.
But for me days and nights of
wondering had long been dead

I want you to be happy,
but it's not with me.

As time goes by,
I find myself content
with the leftover love for you:

It doesn't mind at all
that I'm happy with another

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.

You say things like:
"Caw caw!" and "llamo"
with a hard L

As a statement
you ask: "You my baby?"
Despite the holes in my body

Our shared presence a chaotic
good and I, beside myself, at your
"We love each other, don't we?"

You think
you know
beauty

better than
the bee, but

Flowers turned pretty
for them-- so we say
Flowers turned pretty
for them

because of evolution and propagation

and not how the bug sees
something pretty enough

--for a human
to say its pretty
enough--

and go to it

You were once
a grand influx of air:

fluffing up lungs,
puffed with oxygen.

But the inhale has
quickly become
a held breath