Bacon.
Eggs.
Cheese.
Bits
of
chicken parts.
Lion
teeth.
A feather
from a king's headdress,
given to you
because you told him
"Isn't this just a stupid ritual?
I was just wondering that."

I like the way your fingers tighten
around my fingers
when you talk
and I happen to be close by.

It's funny,
this poem was supposed to be about
breakfast,
going to the zoo,
and going to see the "Mayans"
and their stupid
fake kings.

We are becoming
a
very
stupid people.

There is a melancholy
piano,
with a whole bunch of dust
like a film
of fear
in your corner,
that you like to play
every night
in the purple dark.

But I sleep,
holding you,
and I don't seem fragile
or under
some
formal demand.

Maybe
there can be
two types of will,
one for fear
and
one for
contentment.

You win the day,
with your ability
to will
certain things
into being.

Purple dark
ravishes.

We lay on the bed
and I can smell your hair
not fragile at all.

I am afraid
I could exhaust myself.

But then
little tiny dots
of rain dribble
basketballs
on my cheek.

And the sport
begins
with a buzzer
and a knock
on my door.

"You know
what's crazy babe?"

"What?"

"You scare me
with your love."

"That's such a waste,
come here,
I want to tell you something."

You scooch
over to me.

I just want to
know
your sticky skin.

You just breathe close to me,
all night long.

Our words
use our bodies
for mouths.

I'm not ashamed to say
that we really know
how to ****
each other.

And for all you *******
love is so physical
that words
and eternal sentiments
break it down.

Today
we ate flowers.

A petal
fell into your coffee.

There is
a star
named
us.

From
us
to
fusion.

You like to say:

"I get baby guts
in the morning."

This means
you're not going to be drinking
for awhile.

I hold your hair
while you puke.

And you bring me Tums
and ginger ale,
as I hemorrhage
stomach acid
in the perfect acoustics
of porcelain.

Sometimes
the wind screams;
you whistle
away.

Teach me someday.

"In my life
things are built on
and compounded
on and
I like to think
I'm pretty deep because of it."

Black eyes bore holes
taking
core samples.

"And I like to think
that when people hear me
sing,
they feel a little hole forming
inside themselves."

I say stupidly:
"Water needs holes to fill."

"Sometimes I feel haunted,
and I don't know how to tell people,
especially people I'm intimate with."

"It's not really intimacy then."

"I guess your right."

"Do you ever run,
do you want to leave?"

"I usually do,
but now it's different,
I like being here
with you,
I like the way you smell
and touch me
and put on your eyeliner
in the morning
and
you make me feel stupid
without
feeling stupid."

You stare at me,
and staring
has never been
so warm.

Usually fear
would creep in by now
hauling
it's bag with it.

But your stare makes cold things
go away.

"There are stupid things
I love about you,
but even more than that,
there are real things."