My name, his pupil screamed across the room.
The coarse pages of a New York novel stitched into the binding of my grip.
I am a waning willow under grey skies. The unnerving stillness of chest shatters amongst prose-dripped conversations. Am I ready to? We race to a cab.

We arrive, and in a nearsighted exhaust collapse into plastic-skinned chairs. A hacking congestion echoes between the walls. He stands and as he speaks, I feel his words wrap over my shoulder and then around my waist. Our embrace is an Orchid. As he exits I long for our next season.

We are unabridged lovers seeking vengeance against the moments which separate us. I escape to the tutelage of Jacques Peuchet. I learn the weight of a love born sword, and yearn for the ink to write us away from this moment.

I step out to pavement with Summer's gentle breath igniting the hairs of my neck. I follow Orchid ink veins to a break in the sidewalk. Coddled in the concrete, a pen. I am reminded of the discarded decorations of the blinded adorning our space. I see our future, in beautiful color: The vibrant friction which pours ink to page - dreams stained into their threads.

I return to you my forever, so we can watch our love spill across an enternity of pages longing for a pen.

Heartsongs wave in the frequency of light.
They glide gently through a wavering cavity.
Their voices are filled with the longing of
of a light which sprays its glow amongst the dust surrounding your face.

You sigh, empty of breath, as your hands lay motionless against the screen. A dam of words cramps knuckles and seizes the moment. Those words are stuck there, roaring around your joints - an elliptical trajectory in perpetual void.

A branch extending and bending in the wind,
Would gift it's leaves to an unshaken night.
A chilling flow to unshackle - would sway
Like a snake's tongue - their brittle brown from
Crisp wood finger. And the growing heat from an early sun would pull and stretch and carry them
Back through the roots and the bark, around the knots to burst through the edges and paste the night
A deepening green. Settling, a blossomed fog would
Seep beneath a dirt thick plow to spin and sew life-threads. Unbridled twining would boil through the surface and extend its arms to the sun.

A car alarm would ring in the street.

I felt the hair on your cheek like brail standing and screaming, as your breath whispered into my ear.
Down the canal like a Venetian rower it flowed until it rested rhythmically on the pulse of my heart.
Passion fills the moments between the repositioning of our pupils, and in staring
I paint a moon in the dark spot of your eyes.
That moon, poised against the friction of blinks, glows brightly causing vibrations like wind blown grass through face.
Your neck extends and your head shift-tilts, a perpetually still teetotum. My lips grip upon an extension, and we are pulled away.
Pulled, and pushed we collide and the atoms of our souls explode, melding and twisting and engulfing the void separating painted moons and brail.

The water bled color in its mimic of the city.
The shore, cold-green-in-black, tickled
waves into a song of retreat.
Smells of electricity pop-flashing in my fingers
running through your hair.

The silence, sharp, poignant and pointed
Lacking punctuality as the second hand of my watch explodes through the stars. You lean forward and back, pulling away and crashing back - a wave upon my shore.

Our hands crawl together to melt in the friction of our hearts, and they pour into the sand, building our delta to the sea.

There's a taste of wine, the breeze flushing my skin, and the small vibration of my voice in your head.

"I love you," I said, "In the tumultuous silence, under an eccentric moonlight - I love you - in the star bursting grip of the sea, and in the wake of your embrace."

A choir of crickets fades, and there is only you, and me, and the sea.

It's natural to be afraid,
To run into the hollow fields of fear.
The empty light, cold comforting, distills emotion like the funnel of an hourglass. Hibernate between the grains, and let their coarseness strip you of sensibility. Retreat. Run.

Or wait. Breathe, and speak. Pant, and sweat, grip hold, firmly, a conviction. Stay, don't run. Flood, bleed feeling.

Stare down an army of electric synapse and feel it shock the flesh in your cheeks. Grip your toes, and tense your weight.

It's natural to be afraid, but there is no retreat in love.

In your eye a shutter-spark that catches
my gaze like a passing street lamp
driving in the rain - it’s refraction
drifting in and out until it’s a flash-bulb
burned in my eye. A flash-bulb, lightning,
sewing the skies and growing beauty in depths
and molding itself to veins. Veins that burn
into the friction of my
sporactic chest - a catalyst.

A catalyst that ignites my gaze
and inflames my ribs,
it beckons your breath -
warm against my ear.
A breathing,
a comfort,
like the softness of the light in winter;
where the clouds draw like curtains
and you hold onto me.

A moment of hesitation in breath,
And I continue to falter.
You scare words from my ribs
And I fear you. You to make me a convict
of my indecision.

Still – barred - paused in frequency.

You're less than I thought you were.
I am less than I thought I'd be.
Somewhere between
the sifting sand, and tide
I remember us, poor and volatile.
A volcano - the crust defending
eruption -

You smiled and I choked.

I’m writing this for you Annie,
and I’m writing it with bipolar keys
in rapid speed.

They remain stale in the air. Impatiently waiting
in the glow of the low-lit-monitor. Their purpose
undefined without action.

It’s only for a moment they feel weightless,
harvesting energy - exploding upwards.
Their screams of ecstasy muffled by the resonance
of my key-connecting-finger-snaps.  

Keys in rapid speed.

In the seasons
where leaves break like bones
beneath treading soles,
I tied impetuous hands,
which grazed her hips,
and bound them to the trail
of her hair down her back.

Frigid -- the droplets of ice
beating my veins like
a metronome clock—
hands shook, and dirt
grew beneath nails.

Clouds formed a river of stars
gazing in the blue moon.
I watched as it receded
and dried along the edges of
of the roof.

You look lost, a stitched-woman, voiding the wind in your hair.  
Like face-free-eyes lighting a temple in their reflection
you glare knotted in fall-spokes dreaming of winter.
-Tea is steaming from your glass -
God has turned left-hand memories into ports beneath skin
filling in the dreams of your frozen hair, like veins.  
A gold-oil spills from your lips as you breathe  
in my mouth - Your glass still steaming -

When you come back: Will lay me in your reflection and listen
for the sound of my hair in your hands?

I dream of snow - dreaming of whispers -
colliding and beading on the glass;
and the dissipation of dew
from the weeds that grew
in the cracks of my window.

I discovered:

In young love - we grab the sun
from our window-sill-horizon and
sheath ourselves in warmth.  

And

In the midst of love - we rise together
and let the wind soak into the feathers of our wings
and rain waves to the ocean shore.

And

In the oldest love that we dance amongst
the refracting moonlight of  heart-sea.

But

It’s in Our Love that we forever hold the sun,
rise together, and dance in the raining warmth of our heart.

I carried you on earthen wings
and when we began
the feathers that fell sprouted
fish which flew within our trail.

Milkweeds grew from the red-soiled banks. Their tops
spout like tiny fountains. The Birds bathed within
pink milkweed pools.

Downstream
a chained woman cried,
her blouse coated in sweat and her arms
pulled tight.
Her face lifted towards the sky,
and her mouth dripped thick saliva.

A broken windmill
floated in the gusts of wind
And the current flung us into space.

You gripped my neck
and ran your hands
to my chest. Your fingers stopped
at the pulsation
and you delivered a pin
to my left ventricle.

Poised and clenching we watched
the continents turn grey

Breast-ache woman, you beautify
behind redden scars
and befriend those who are
free from languid storm-hair.

I see you rate the raw breast-worship
of frantic whistles which collide against the
callus freckles of a moon-sea.

You ask, "Can you see the satellites that sate
lights of the city...Creating
causeways or ways to cause
the first chill of dirt in a Martini?"

I take a drink.

There was morality in why women want,
but emotional voids are consumed by consumerism
and it’s redundant, but you can’t feed the starving
food. These days you can’t find one not
entranced by the idea of a “better ****** diet,”
and it sounds like they need to eat out more, but
the Glamour in magazines is under empty stomachs
and proof-labeled wine. So you find yourself at a cross,
cross-eyed and in a skeletal body running in the rain.
But if she wrote Drinking: A love story, and broke my heart,
then she can fill voids with Hegel substitutions. She filled
one with God and one with Zoloft. A baby escapes,
escape that Burroughs found only in blow-jobs and *****(
until he met a golden pig and finally blacked-in)
And in the child’s first suckling moment
“Let her be filled.”

Click-slap of uvula-tonsils and the
brown vanilla on my tongue
write a poem about autumn
and how not to let leaves in your
hair

A bustling of noses and wind blown hair
gloating over goats which bleed
calculable blood.
One pence, two pence, three
and there’s a crowd surrounding
a tunic at the top of the stairs.

Oil was discovered, covered
by a man in a tunic
sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming
in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding
lubricant beneath stands and markets,
and marketing water.

Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper,
prop her against the boards
and rest the nail against her temple,
temple where a man in tunic
flipped markets like gear-grinds
unearthing oil in fire
exploding jelly purple dye,
dying is the goat upon
the stage

on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants

In I-Tram station
you’ll reside under the Metro
shunning the screams of
the lost letters in “W.”
Listening as the
cook batters her clay
and thinks only God hit
language and delirium trudged
knot-in-chain.

A sign read:

“There are sordid songs of tonguing rails
beneath the wheels”

Deathless laying - strewn -
your hand gripping the bone
in my shoulder.

Mixed are the decaying
shards of skin from
bodies

Everything almost touching
again reduced and
mixed in formation
and your hand
calcifies
to me

What in blank skin covering
the eyes  - which twitter
and in their chaos -
accentuates our inhibition?

Ripe tears fall
never
into
the face catching
follicles
instead

I swam across to the
heartinents in your chest
and my
mother would say not to
fall into grips that
free emotions like
port, port that enters into
worldsea and drifts across
faded hurricane winds to encapsulate
icewinds in
jars like
coffins closing off to
blind light and opening
peoples airways to scream
of fear in love

Free of sight
in wine-flooded dreams
you lay
and I rest as hands
knot over the
abyss that opens for
brooding thoughts
that drip
out of my mind
as I lay my insatiable
eyes to rest.

We were entranced in gold
gold painted
gray like the
Aircrowns of clouds which
died in the sea and flooded
clocks in time.

In time we see wine-flood drowning your veins.  

In the light,
echoes cross your chest
and ride your face
pasting the evening names of
all the alnames
building a pillar of floating memories.

Memories float in wine-blood
like all that’s lost
in the seconds between
blinking, the images
in light are carbonized

I breathed, breathed and
I rolled ruffling
clouds and
didn’t use the spoke,
spoke that caught
the innards of orbs
and was still,
was still closed
stitched by the lashes
stitched in dreamless veins

you latched to me
barring my extended legs
-they are warped, twisted from
yours-

Left, I am placed in
the deep exhalation of
icewind breaking through
your teeth

There is nothing knotted in chains
to stop the tinsels of steel around
your eyes from splitting your face