Tie your powder blue checkered sheets,
and dangle them out of your
splintered window frame.

Wire bodies scrambling down,
you and your sister, tan and loud,
bringing ultra-light cigs and
burner flip-phones,
promising *** without
the feeling of being alone.

This is for the chips on your polish,
much like you: red and drawn
by a shaky Saturday night,
where I'm your friend,
unsure and twenty-two,
driving through muddy water
like a submarine submerged in time.

The stereo shouts out Minor Threat,
neon and done, are we, the naked,
parked outside the park
where you wrecked your bike,
we threw mixtapes off the bridge,
where we had fun.

I can still hear our theme song
beyond the headlights
beyond the moans.

Smart alecky tourists
All crack the same tired jokes
A thousand times a day.

And we are no saints.
Sometimes when the heat
Is elevated
And the humidity
Takes your breath
We forget to laugh.

One ******* on sunday
Asked If there would be
An indian attack
And I just looked at him.

Too stupid to give up
He asked if I would attack
Because I look like an Indian.

I smiled
As if to say bless your heart
And told him honestly
"Not usually on Sunday."

Knife and tomahawk
Are never far away
Though

Poets do not
make a living;
they make a life.

I put on socks knitted by a
Grandmother long gone
And open my windows to winter.

Fine snow like mist through a microscope
Enters and dies at the tempered hands of
Home.

I reach outside to stroke the crystal

Stream in the air,
Looking forward to sun, and the rain.
Always also the rain.

searching the haystack for the needle
use a metal detector

searching the World for love
try practising honesty....