We flew through
puberty and left a Concorde trail.
A signature of heat,
feats to fete the wonder in and the wondering
of where to begin.

But the Concorde trail tails off
eventually,
and after the screaming noise, of us,
the boys
when silence returns to the body, and it's
only the chimes of the clock that rocks us to sleep,
there is, I find a tiny piece of my mind, where
puberty keeps a notebook

I look at it, cringe,
squeak like the hinge of an old door,
look some more,
it fascinates me
consternates me
makes me laugh and cry,
the trying of and wanting to
and the wonder of wondering who.


The memory of most memorable events are
scorched into and run right through me,like
a stick of Blackpool rock,each name I've known
are written and imprinted on me.

Puberty and what comes next,will in the future,
I am sure be sent in hurried texts by
hurried men,who hurry on to marry wives,
have hurried *** in hurried lives
and after that,
who knows.

Which man walks with weary tred
laughs at the dead,
the dying too.
Who with nonchalance would dare
to walk,to wander,
stroll through there?

Amidst the crying and
the moans,the decaying bones
the groans of what were men,
which man walks then
with a weary tred
among the dying
and the dead?

Hard to miss, you can take me home.
I'd rather be anyone than to be alone.
Marlboro-stained teeth
have my lips controlled.
Don't mistake the chemicals
for our souls.

I move with the waters inside your ribcage.
Because when I drown in you,
it's the perfect place.

Softly, please, taking off our clothes:
I can see the kisses that have left holes.
You've been acid-washed
by love that wasn't stronger.
Take off your armor,
so you can stay here longer.

Your face is as cold
as the place I found you in.
You can let go of the hurt
trapped beneath your skin.

I keep warm in your fire that beats fast.
To be alone with you, it to be, at last.

Hard to miss, I will take you home.
You can be anyone, rather than be alone.
Remove your shoes, but not your heart.
You can stay here, as our world falls apart.

I think you have too many shirts.
My closet is basically an overflow -
For yours.
I'm wearing one now.
It's hitched up over my nose so I can smell it.
It's red flannel, one of my favorites.
Your green sweater is on my floor.
It's lost your scent but -
It's still soft.
You really have too many shirts.
I'd have a garage sale but -
I like smelling them too much.
Sue me.