Savory tendrils of steam waft out like hands,
Pulling my face inches & inches closer to the brim.
The pressure of the top & the bottom eyelid closing
Lips curling into a small smile, pulling at the cheeks
The aroma twisting around tongue and teeth and brain
Slight tilt back of head, the cold porcelain on your fingers
Gripped a little tighter, tip with anticipation
Don't dive in, just let a little slide down
Warmth throughout your body

I never new you very well,
All I knew was,
You were gay,
You were my uncle,
Your name was Johnny,
And that I loved you.

I don't remember much about you,
only that you were tall,
had brown hair,
and that you were kind.

I think,
You will be happy to know,
That you have a great niece named after you,
Her name is Johnnie,
She is four years old and very out going

When you died,
I remember being sad,
I knew that you death had been slow,
I knew you had died because something in your body,
failed.

The only thing I know about you,
Is that you died because of ***
I will never forgive that desiese
for taking your life.
I wish I could have gotten to know you more,
I love you.

A selfish boy, a wise boy, a fearful boy once said...
"Love is a cruel chemical trick"

A hope filled girl, a foolish girl, a stubborn girl said back...
"You are clueless,
or selfish,
or immature.
Unaware of anything other than your own joys and struggles.
Never aware of the shirt from anothers back,
only aware of the poorly fitting nature of it on your body.
Accustomed to the graciousness of the naive and hopeful.
Bitter, sarcastic, reclused and estranged.
Innately, enviously attracted to light.
To those who ridiculously obsess over love,
who believe beyond reason
in the good in others,
in the good in you."

your ears were by far your best feature
they could deflect all my nervous trifles and absorb the jokes no one else got, the confessions I whispered through the phone, and the significance of being on the other end
(please remember)
I am not compiling a list of clichés with which to barricade the door when loneliness knocks
This is not a love song,
so please don’t use those ears to search for one

those ears were second only to your tongue
it possessed the unique ability to mold sound into exactly what I needed to believe
the confessions it sculpted
and glazed with calculated vulnerability fit so comfortably in my ear
that tongue was a love song and a mace rolled into one
(please remember)
not to use it to sing my praises, and I’ll grant you the same courtesy

your feet are so beautiful, too
the elegance with which they propelled you into someone else’s day dreams was inspired

with a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
the fumes choking me, I never got a chance to say
that coffee from the place you used to-
we
used to like
is bitter now
it tastes the way goodbye did as it rolled off my tongue and chased your retreating back
I add more sugar
but the clinking of the spoon echoes the “I love yous” whispered to someone else
the sound fits in her ear the way your hand used to fit in mine
the spaces between my fingers now resemble apartments whose tenants have been evicted
the landlord hardened by rejection wears a coat sewn from the time and wears a mustache curled into the shape of desire
these lonely flats are plagued with shadows
(that’s what happens when the sun is so **** close you can taste it, but there’s something else in the way)
(please remember)
this is not a love story

(please remember)
I don’t want you back
I want coffee that won’t stain my smile
I want my favorite songs not to be harmonized by the sound of your breathing
I want my posture not to sing a Taylor Swift song and
I desperately want not to be the girl writing you poetry
(the kind that you would never listen to anyway)

your ears were by far your best feature
everything else is blurry to me now
I can’t picture your edges anymore, or differentiate where they separate from mine
Your ears were second only to your tongue
Your feet are so beautiful, too
With a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust

I hate the beach
I'm eighty six and I hate the beach
Hate the sand, not a fan of the surf
Face it, I hate the beach
Last time I went there
I had just turned 18 years old
June sixth, Nineteen Hundred Forty Four
God, I hate the beach
I was in the 5th Regiment
Régiment de Maisonneuve
and I've never been to a beach since
I'm from Verdun, Quebec, Canada
Not many beaches around there
Thank the lord for that I say
We'd been training for six months
Operation Overlord it was called
We were coming in on troop carriers
It was to be a beach head landing
I'd never seen a beach before
At least not for real
Never want to see another
We arrived early June 6, 1944
I think I said that already
You must forgive me,
I'm 86 years old and I hate the beach
fourteen thousand Canadian Troops
Bursting out of armoured troop ships
Like, the young, virile, brahma bulls we were
Coming in, all I could hear was the waves
I was in front, well...close to the front
I remember, there were no birds
who ever heard of that?
A beach with no birds
At least not at this beach
I could smell the salt in the air
And I knew I could hear the surf
And my heart, I could **** well hear that
But, no birds, I couldn't hear the birds
Gunfire, nope...cannons and mortars
But birds and guns, not a sound
Weird huh?
I remember running forward
Always forward, past blocks
Wood barricades and barbed wire
And bodies, lots of bodies
I knew that I knew some of them
I just didn't have time to stop
And say goodbye,
I just ran
Emptied my weapon at least once
I only know this, because it was empty
when I hit the beach
God, I hate the beach
You know in the movies
or in those flowery books
where they talk about someone being shot
and how "there was a bloom or
they're chest flowered red where they were hit"
I never saw that, never looked back
Just ran forward, saw the "bloom" in their backs
Don't like red, or flowers or the beach
I don't remember much after that
Could still hear my heart
That's a good thing, I guess
I got tore up good with the wire
but I never got shot
Never, "bloomed" for anyone
A few of my buddies were lost
I toast them every year
Never at the beach though
I hate the beach
Wife and kids used to go
I never did, never will
I remember the 50th anniversary though
Wife and kids went back
Not me,
Went into Montreal to see a ball game
Montreal Expos 10, Houston Astros 5
I remember Will Cordero hitting a homer
It was the sixth inning, I toasted the hit
I thought about that day 50 years before
And went back to watching the game
I hate the beach
My name is Gilles Roquefort
I'm eight six years old
And I can still feel the sand and taste the salt
On a bad day.

We did it pressed between bedsheets
when no one was home,
our hearts increasing our blood flow.
We did it in the sand,
rough and coarse,
unafraid,
matching the timing of the waves, letting the moon
put us in the spotlight.
We did it in the back of your car,
shaking and fumbling, we unbuckled hesitation,
while Destiny’s Child played on the radio.
For a moment, I was nine again,
but your fingernails dragged me back.
The seats smelled like cheap burgers,
and moisture.
For a moment, I wondered if this is something Beyonce would do.
But only for a moment.
We did it without realizing what we were doing,
or how it would change us.
One day, we found ourselves,
different from who we wanted to be.

we are all the **** of the earth

we are murderers and thieves
we are behemoths of waste; spoiled with desire
we spit on intelligence
forgo warning
think not
worry not
we consume always
we make gods out of bigots
and worship ourselves
we are the ****
the trash
the throw-outs
the refuge
yes, yes we are

we are what we like least,
what we need least

what will get us (in the end)

when the world finishes
when the curtain clothes
when we are swallowed

the hand behind the blade,
the assailant responsible,
our murderer,
our killer,
our horsemen,

will be us.