Bedsunk, hair in eyes, coughing the haunt of a 9 o'clock cigarette, she resigns to sleep.
I'm edges -- rough and looking to let the blood out.
Handful of skirt. I just want to cuddle. But her lips smell like her crotch tastes. Bubbling salt bog water. I'm doing the math. It's basic.
Under the shirt and pulling back the bra, lapping at her sunken breast, ouch.
Red. Smarting. And I never bit it.
"What did you do after work today?"

I kissed someone's wife today.
It felt better than I wanted it to.

In my tiny bedroom,
the walls looked more beige than usual.
Martha laid beside me -- her idea.

Frames.
I didn't have frames on a couple posters.
Martha rested her head on my shoulder -- her idea.

Instead of putting up my clean laundry,
an **** of boxers, button-downs, and jeans took place on the floor.
Martha told me she liked her hair played with -- I didn't ask.

I left my cigarettes in plain sight
on top of a face down picture frame.
She slid my arm under her neck -- I couldn't be rude.

While she spoke of her husband watching cartoons,
I noticed **** (used during last week's *** with an ex) lying behind a couple beer bottles.
I put my right leg between her legs -- I can't help it if I'm a curious man.

When Martha pulled the blanket over our heads,
I hoped she couldn't smell my ex's perfume.
She let me run my fingers along her waistline -- she didn't tell me to stop until the fourth kiss.

Tributaries of mascara ran down her face.
Rivers of regret rushed out of her mouth.
I played out what would have happened -- had I not grabbed her, pressed my lips harder on the fourth.

"I'm not this kind of girl."
I told her things would be better with her husband.
Handing her a clean rag off the floor, she said -- "My life wasn't supposed to turn out this way."

I broke up the **** of clothes, grabbed an armful; made a beeline for the closet.
With a beautiful sound, a beer bottle broke as I passed by.
Martha's teary eyes saw the **** -- "What the hell were you planning to do?"

She slammed the door.
One of my unframed posters peeled itself off the wall and feathered to the ground.
Most of me felt cloudy, but I knew one thing -- she's got a good 50 years of marriage to go to spite me.

We put the dark light in,
turn the stereo on,
we've kicked out all the chairs,
and I'm complimenting the suit Tyler wears.

The summer sun, the breeze,
all your trees,
that stuff is for the bees.

Here it's intensely personal conversations,
with brown-eyed girls we've never seen before.
Here it's slow dancing to early Tom Waits,
and leaving bread crumbs of shameless hints.

The freedom is found
when we under-sleep
and over-drink,
when we fall on the carpet
and laugh because it
shouldn't bring us this delight.

Tyler will make up mixed drinks,
and if he destroys himself tonight,
well, I'll be in the front row,
with a pillow and a joke.

The worried eyes are limits.
An unbridled gravity
keeping everyone down,
and tonight they aren't invited.

Our minds will spiral up,
as our bodies cling to the couch,
we'll talk of old friends and
dying relatives,
we'll swear forgiveness,
and be surprised if the
sun decides to rise,
we only live for the night.

General Patton and droppers
in between the cushions of couch,
in between the ceiling fan and carpeted wasteland,
in between nirvana and judgement day,
heavy, heavy,
I lost my way --
I Dug the Pony,
I Luft the 99th Balloon,
I was a Carpenter and You were a Lady,
in between sheets,
in between seams,
in between nail and crucifix,
heavy, heavy,
I dug in and stayed --
I wedding banded,
I honeymooned,
I threshold,
in between purgatory and heavenly blur,
in between intersection and parallel,
in between watercolor and pastel,
heavy, heavy.

I drape myself in their minds,
I sit silently and promise nothing
is wrong with me.

There is light in all my dear friends,
I'm drawn in by the flame.

The weekends are filled with
glasses of ***, and "behave yourselves"
and it all feels pure, frightening,
desperate, lovely.
The weekdays filled with late night discussions
centered around depression,
and groundbreaking musicians.

We wake with headaches,
we go to work with red eyes and wrinkled shirts,
but we find God only in the luminance of night.

"Purity vital."
I laughed and then spoke,
"****** from the start."

Saturday night,
I dreamt I killed you.
It felt alright.

This morning,
I missed your smile.
I guess your wit, too.

Tomorrow,
I'll think about our drab conversations.
And will want to **** you again.

I entered as an accident,
and by accident I now leave.
With black sky above my head,
and black water beneath my feet,
I breathe deep, beerlit, shivering, and free of strings.
The salty sea's tides tease -- beckoning me.
Self-inflicted with age, far beyond
***** talk bedrooms, and burnt sage,
I travel deeper.

Deeper into the rocking cradle of the sea.
And any man staring into that black, wet eternity
would wonder about what he'll leave --
I've heard of leftover children, money, wives, lies, and lucky influence,
but I can't leave that to which I never cleaved.
I've got a suit and tie.
A pair of black shoes.
A pair of brown shoes.


My heart beats madly as the waves bash against my chest.
Whiteness laces the black water.
Immaculate white.
Whispering white.
A Great White Peace washes over me,
along with the seaweed and some wooden debris.
In this moment I say
-- I love you each
but under the sound of the sea,
my words, no more than flybuzz speech.

In this moment,
this Great White Peaceful moment
my existence does freeze,
as my body twists in the hands
of the black sea.

In the fluorescent mourning,
teary and bedded in the violence
of wandering violin -- seeking praise
and receiving a hospital bed,
I told my brother to paint the city,
the way in was in 2002.

The road kaleidoscope'd and fractured
all of Kerouac's high coups,
broken saltines and cold tomato soup,
in gown in feathered down--
the world sang couplets and through windows
I watched rain, and told my brother
to paint the city,
the way it was before my success and subsequent pain.

and i've grown weary of it.
the way they take the broken
shards of argument,
scrape and stab,
until everyone in the room is bleeding.


all for the drama of the event.


and i've grown weary of it.
the way they get their sweet tooth
fix on sugary gossip,
they chomp and growl
until the whole town is watering at the mouth.


all for the sake of boredom.


and i've grown weary of it.
the vultures hanging around the honest,
belly-bulging babes.
they wink and ******
until the best in us, is laid to waste.


all in the name of accomplishment.

While Rachel slept lost in twisted sheets,
I fixed myself a drink.
I sat outside for an hour to breathe
cigarette smoke -- my mind on the brink.
All my time spent with couples,
my wanderings tamed for privacy fences--
a third wheel in groups of four rubble,
am I *****, prophet, poet or menace?
I thought as the stars coughed across
the acidic sky; I wish for a spark to ignite--
the powder trail of ambition I lost
in swampy suburban repetition cries.
On the steps of my porch, I felt no God.
In the arms of worship or between a lover's thighs,
no sanctity, nor blessing, just scattered dirt clods--
I miss the old ignorance -- kept my heart from whys.
But now those same whys taunt and entice.
A supreme darkness surrounds me--
one my eyes have adjusted to--
one my justifications turn free--
leaving me hungry for new dark territories
and the kind of knowledge that never
lets you sleep.

I could kiss you,
but what's the point?

I could never push his kiss
from claimed territory.

I could hold you,
but it would only remove me.

You would cry into my shoulder,
talk about what he "used to do",
I'd be furniture.

A proper fool,
Wiping his tears from your eyes.
Listening, as you re-asked all the whys.

I could tell you I loved you,
but you'd simply say:

"I gave my love to another,
I think of him every ******* day."

I could give you my time or blood,
all of it would equal none.

You are my poison,
and I picked you.

You are my poison,
but I refuse to kiss you.

forehead kisses,
sipped wine,
and curls of incense blanketed
our clumsily sprawled bodies.

it was our first true blue
listening party.

you stole the wine from a roommate
after sneaking in the back door.

i picked up the album at midnight,
i just couldn't wait anymore.

you couldn't finish your second glass,
as we reached the fifth track.

my head was wonderfully light
off the tidal waves of smoke.

this world might be tearing at our hearts,
all the other couples we know might
be falling apart,
but i'm not sure if i'd have any direction
at all without you,
just dig your fingertips into my shoulder blades,
don't give me a chance to get away,
i've never been more content than right now with
you halfway submerged in blankets,
3/4 tipsy,
and talking about how much you love 70s' punk.

Packed in tight,
labored breathing to my front, behind, left,
and right.
There was sharp college affiliation division,
mostly clean shavens, greying womens,
a meager family of lost souls,
unified in their desire to levitate,
from the daily ties
and coffee grinds.

The airplane dragged its feet,
as we cousins stared through windows,
holding the remnants of home in our lungs,
as the plane began to recline,
the engines sang a maddening song,
our eyes widened in exhalation.

The city dissolved, landscapes dissolved,
in its stead, opaque white filled our viewing screen,
but in that sacred moment,
when we rose over the roughly hewn clouds,
when holy light, holy sky broke through,
we exhaled,
as the sun cascaded over each ridge and bluff,
the kindness of directionless was finally restored.

I shed everything but
the pencil skirt and stockings.
I suffocate and sundry and
drift into my boy's case of
suede leather, where he
trusts me to miscalculate
his competence and its
Saturday, the morning,
and he says, I love you
in the morning, Sarah.
There's stroke and nip,
at every turn of the trail
an adoration for what
he calls my soul, and
he asks for the routine
obliteration. A violence
always whispered.
I'm velvet everything.
Velvet tongued.
Velvet *****'d.
Each portal and contour
a soft place for him to
land, to dispose of his
fear of death,
but what am I supposed to
do with it, the fear of death?
But this is my burden
with the light skipping
through the blinds. Simpler
times, there were, I think.
And a last name he means
to hang on me, always soon
and very soon. Dishes in the sink.
Eternal moonbeams and sun rays.
This is it, I'm afraid.

my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.

how quickly i became
synonymous with
a snicker and a sneer.


they hate what they
don't know,
and they'll
fell you,
cast your
dead body into
deep water
along with
your electric.

hope you
feel the
cruel sting
of your
creation.

but all i
feel is empty.

missing
the freedom of
oxygen.

missing
expression.

god,
i'm sorry
for one transgression.

i at least confessed.

i gave truth.

they drown you for it.
they disown you for it.

if you knew everything
your loved ones did and
said and
thought,
they'd all
be
shocking you.

my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.

A black-haired, sharp-toothed preacher from behind pulpit
told the rose carpet congregation that if a child dies
before baptized, it will go to heaven.
As automatic as automatic.

I was six when I heard those words.
I pulled my invisible friend aside; gently broke, "Now for the end."
Why grow old only to spend an eternity in hell?

I walked through the yellowed pasture of grain.
To the brambles.
To the brambles brimming with what my mother called "poison berries."
"See ya in heaven."
I ate until my stomach churned with unrest.
"This is it."

15 years later,
I'm still waiting for the effect.

I'm walking laps around my apartment complex.
Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona,
a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall,
headlights, streetlights, lighters,
swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright.
I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night,
but finally past the nausea.

I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family.
The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in
the waning hours of night.

I woke at 9 this morning to find
her barely covered in a ratty,
blanket, no pillow under her
ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red,
asking if I was okay.

I thought she was overreacting.
She shoved water in my face.
She said, "Drink it, ******."
Like she'd tried a few thousand times before,
and apparently she had,
I just didn't remember any of it.

She had saved me around 4.
She cleaned off a death mask
of filthy ***** by force.
I wouldn't comply because
I wasn't coherent.

Tonight as I touch each crack
of the pavement with my sole,
the rest of the human family
is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque
off their pudgy fingers,
and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.

I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline
and said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow
found contentedness in "everything is".
That never made much sense to me.
Bukowski found god in ******* and drinking beer.
Vonnegut said when god created the world,
man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised,
and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."

Don't have friends that work at liquor stores.
They know what's good.
They get it cheap.
They have lots of friends they want you to meet.

I drank so much ***.

Quality ****.

I'm still drunk,
in the morning I hope this makes sense.

Here's what happened:

I went to the store and bought a mop,
our bathroom and kitchen floors are caked with
a various assortment of coffee, cheese, grease, and lots of other
mysterious things.

Clayton shot me a line,
said, "I got the *** you need to try."
I went to his place around 11.

The only honest girl,
the only girl I care to speak to,
the only girl I think I could even be attracted to,
had a heavy heart for her ex-one reemerged,
and all I know is he will make me further obsolete.

I got to Clayton's.
We smoked.
Watched a classic noir film.
Drank. Drank. Drank.

"Want to smoke a hookah?"

"Sure, man. It's whatever."

Off to Nathan's we went.

Nathan lives with a Persian girl
with impeccable skin.

Nathan has a Mexican lady interest,
who I wanted to pin.

I controlled my intake to purgatory states.
I played sweet.
I played collected.
I played drinking games.

I texted another ex.
A different one this time.
She didn't want to come over.
She's smarter than I remembered.

Clayton,
you are my destroyer.
I'll see you tomorrow
to **** myself again.

we weaklings
were weapons of warmth,
lulling, sanctifying,
losing ourselves in orbit,
in constellations of opticals,
and oh, how the voices would
rise from below us,
and my, how the fires would
fall all around us,
but it was always you and me,
wrapping ourselves in freedom,
speaking naught of love,
only acceptance in hopelessness,
and gratefulness at each others'
words and actualized souls.

I pulled myself through the lecherous carpet,
used the torn, stuffing-spilled, arm of the couch
to hoist myself to the door.

I opened it, only to find Wayne.
"Why didn't you answer your phone, *******?"

I rubbed my red eyes,
cleared my throat, stutter-stepped
with my speech, finally finding my
footing, I asked,
"What are you talking about, man?"

"I called you last night, like 6-or-7 times."

"I had a time of it."

"Yeah, I can see that by the aura of class you are emitting."

"Oh, *******. Why are you so dressed up?"

"That's why I called, you ******* hermit.
Samantha's mom died, on...uh, Wednesday, I think. The funeral is in an hour."

"Gloria's buddy, Sam?"

"Yeah, man."

"****. Okay, well let me at least change clothes, spray on some cologne."

I went to my closet, all the clothes were half-*****,
engaging in an **** on the floor, all the hangers watching, naked,
lonely.

Dug through the mess,
until I uncovered a tie, a white shirt, and some pin-striped pants.
I draped myself in the clothes,
grabbed a pair of sunglasses,
parted my hair,
took a stick of deodorant to my pits, three sprays of cologne,
out the door.

"Where is the funeral?"

"It's off of Sherman Boulevard, not far from Beanie's Coffee."

I got in his passenger seat.
He was listening to Nick Drake's first cut,
which somehow seemed to fit the mood I was in.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
He didn't.
I had made sure to grab my pack of cigarettes
before we left.
Last night's mistakes were still blaring their siren
in my echo chamber of a head,
so anything with a chemical
function to dull the noise,
was a welcome friend.

The funeral was outside,
behind some strangely styled funeral parlor,
circa 1978.
When we made the corner,
the first people we saw were Gloria's parents.
Her dad, stoic, distant like always,
her mom, crying her eyes out, body already
shaking, and all the sentiment was still to be spewed.

They cast stones from afar with their eyes,
I nodded,
shifted my focus onto anything my gaze could find.
Which ended up being Gloria,
such has always been my luck.
She was in a long black skirt,
and a light jacket.
The wind lifted her black hair
in a sweeping, yet uniform movement.
Her lips were painted a deep maroon.
I sat down a couple rows behind,
stared at the back of her head,
while some puppet in a tie
talked about how Sam's mom
is kicking it in heaven.

I heard very little,
I was pretty hungry,
so I leaned over to Wayne,
"Are there any places around here to eat?"

He just stared at me like I was an absolute idiot.
**** him.
People started to walk toward the casket one row at a time.
It was one of those funerals.
Open caskets have always ****** me off.
It's horribly disrespectful to put the recently deceased
on display so everyone can stare with fascination,
as if it's some sideshow attraction at a carnival.

That thought aside,
I looked at Sam's mom as I walked by,
and you know how people always
say **** like, "Aw, well they did a good job,
it looks just like her," they did a rather ****-poor
job with this one.

Her face was a series of unusual lumps,
scattered like the foothills of northern Arkansas.
Her mascara was everywhere,
her cheeks rosier than Santa's *** cheeks,
and the whole spectacle spiraled me into an awful mood.

As everyone was standing around waiting for the processional,
I asked Wayne, "Where is Sam?"

"Dude, they got in a car wreck. Sam's still in the hospital.
She ain't doing too hot. How did you not know that?
They even said it during the service."

"I was really hungry, man."

unapproachable
she, an EMSA driver, framed by gasoline rainbows and held together by hairpins,
sat on the back of an ambulance in a Valero station's lot,
corner of 2nd and Kelly, a passerby might have thought her waiting,
but I knew that to be wrong
that radio would go off in the cab, heart attack, broken hip, sideswipe
she'd remain right there picking at the sticky barcode on the back
of her Bic lighter, she couldn't be bothered with the sound of sirens
she had a history and didn't want anymore dates to dictate and memorize
she looked through me past Fox Hollow Lane, past the unwatched children,
past the rusting panels of ice cream truck, into that eternal place that
I thought only French singers' eyes on album covers in the sixties could find---
unapproachable
but

J.L. had one of those mysterious gland problems.
Some villain gland that made him fatter and fatter;
he was always quick to point it out.

Harvey James invited J.L. over last Tuesday,
during that awful snow that shut down Beecher St.
Anyways, J.L. was supposed to arrive at 6,
however he never had plans and prematurely
arrived at 4:30.

Harvey was occupied with some blonde girl,
who was of a fine leather-tan.
From what Harvey could gather she liked
vampires, pop punk, and sweet tea.
Aside from that her body was okay,
her laugh tolerable, and her eyes were different colors.
The left a sea green, the right a murky grey,
but during a drought Harvey seemed to
settle on whatever vulture was around.

So, J.L. Kreeve knocked on the door.
He heard a bit of a ruckus,
the kind that comes out of computer speakers
when there is nowhere to go.

J.L. tried the door and to his luck it was open.
His entrance was well-timed,
as she let out a final wail,
Harvey gritted his teeth, began panting,
and their bodies collapsed on the sofa.
J.L.'s eyes went wide with
her tan structure.
Her **** seemed to be swinging
like plush dice in a teenager's first car.

"J.L. what the ****, man?"

J.L. continued to stare, stare, stare--
"J.L.," Harvey said firmer, "WHAT the ****?"

"Oh, my forgive me. Forgive me. I'll just step back outside."
And he walked out smiling.

"Sorry about that Whitney."

"Oh no big. It's been worse before. This one time I..."

Harvey tuned out. He hated her. And hated himself
for doing such a *****. He got up, nodding out
of habit and saying things like "oh yes" and "wow" and "I gotcha",-
to which she replied,

"You are like a great listener."

Harvey opened the door since they both were dressed.
J.L. apologized again.
Harvey poured a glass of white wine.
He wasn't much of a fan,
but it was alcohol.
He was trying to lay off the hard stuff
since he had one of those "near-death experiences".

When he came back in,
J.L. was grinning like he was the
smartest ******* on the face of the planet,
and Whitney was letting out little giggles.
Harvey thought perhaps they were having a worthwhile conversation.
He was mistaken.
They were talking about variations of sweet tea
at one of those chain drive-ins.
"Just talking about it is giving me this crazyass craving,"
said Whitney with dumb dimples and blank eyes.

"hahahaha, oh me too," said the 300-pound Clark Gable,
"want to go get some?"

"Oh why the heck not? Harvey, do you want to-?"

"Nah, I got some writing and other **** to do.
You two have fun."

They climbed into J.L.'s car.
Whitney made a comment about all the
sticks of deodorant lying about,
J.L. explained it away perfectly lackluster.

The snow was coming down good at this point.
And they got stuck before they even made it
to their treasure.

They sat in the car.
J.L. only had one CD.
It was some George Michael
disc, he had bummed off his
mother a few weeks ago.
Whitney said something like I'm cold.
J.L. said something like I could warm you up.
She smiled stupidly, unsure what that meant.
J.L. took a gamble and reached for
her right breast.

"Oh, no thanks. Just wanted the tea."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course," J.L. let out a deep exhale,
his fingers fidgeted,
he cleared his throat,
and with a weak cordial
smile asked,
"Do you mind getting out to push?"

Does it look like I'm having fun?
Far from shore in midst of bottom shelf ocean,
Holding me by my edges, afraid I'm about to go off.

"Papa, you're a gun," you rattle off for your friends to hear,
"I feel so reckless with you by my side."

Clasping my edges tighter,
I dream of backfiring into a passing thought--
I dream of backfiring into good times--
lift up and into your purse I go,
with a zip the party softens to a buzz,
with a zip I cozy up to velvet darkness.

I gleam in the fluorescent light of a bathroom
and when you wrap your lips around my barrel,
it's you I want to blow off.
I look away when you find my trigger--
I look away, and pretend another's doing the pulling--
"Papa, you're a gun," you whisper especially for me,
"I feel invincible with you by my side."

You won't when you realize the chamber has gone empty.

I lap a bit of the water out of my cupped hands,
then splash the rest on my battered face.
Evan looked at me like I was obscene,
left the room, slammed the door, burning,
Tyler was still nauseous, buried in the couch,
talked light about being surprised at his survival.
I made him some toast,
we tried to piece together the night,
but we only remembered that
he concocted some White Russian rip-off and called
it a Grey Romanian,
I talked to Rachel about *** and respect,
Evan wasn't very appreciative of the cake I baked,
nor was he kind to Shawna or Kara when
they gave him kickass gifts,
Bobby kept Tyler from drowning in his *****,
Lauren brought me a blanket when I was freezing,
I passed out in the bathroom,
and the general consensus was we need to slow down.

Tyler told me he felt like he needed to go to church.

I felt ***** too,
but it was more from the things I have seen,
I have touched, and God never could make me unsee, unfeel.

Tyler and I sat and talked like ancient men,
men who had far outlived their time,
and were just waiting for death's hour
to claim its ****.

Pure things come and find us,
we won't find you,
not down the road we've been taking.
Pure things,
the world should hang its head in shame
at all its ***** things.
Give us a revival.

The Grey Romanians, the depths,
and the *** aren't giving the answers
we expect.

I told Tyler I loved him,
walked out the door,
the sun was too bright,
I walked past an Asian lady,
her smile was insane,
I climbed in my car,
put on some Thelonious
and mended myself with each erased mile.

How many times and on how many screens has JFK been assassinated? she asks a few minutes into the commute.

Someone has said that to me before, I say.

And I notice, now for the first time, even she is a rerun or a ghost
or an unfortunate reminder of the one who came before her,
from the artfully mismatched polish on her toenails to the way her wrists wrap around each other as she talks her quiet talk, her fingertips balancing her iPhone, which streams Jackie Then Kennedy scrambling toward the back of the Cadillac. Its the Zapruder footage in slow motion and somehow in HD, and she touches the thumbs up icon when the footage comes to a close.

Across from me sits a dead man. I'm sure of it—his death. He lounges in himself, his belly fat imperialistic in its expanse, moving beyond beltline and claiming a space all its own on the torn, blue cushioned seat. The dead man looks a bit like Marlon Brando, post-Tango in Paris, when the depression set in and with it the weight, but like Brando, there's still a cool magic in the deep lines of the dead man's forehead, something forlorn and knowing in the drag of his eyelids.

It's here that I remember I'm a writer. And moments like these, I'm supposed to render in belabored yet fragmented ways.

That's ego, she says, not looking up from her phone.

What's that? I say.

The way you pigeonhole me. Rerun, ghost, et cetera, she says. Maybe I've made love to a sad man like you before. Maybe you're a trigger for me. Maybe I know everyone you're going to be, everything you're going to say.  Like I was going to tell you these pants, these pants are lenin pants and I got them from Bali. And I didn't say it because I already knew your response.

Are they ethically made? we say smugly and simultaneously.

And the subway car does that screeching sound you hear in movies and the tunnels outside do that motion blur you see in movies and I try to kiss her but she says that uh-uh cowboy line you know from movies.

Brando had affairs, I say.

Kennedy had affairs, she says.

Have you ever had an affair?

It was exhausting, she says, the performance required. All the effort in your vocal affectations, those terrible 3 p.m. lunches, the pet names, your obligatory passion and one-liners, the secrecy for the sake of secrecy, the purchase and disposal of lingerie. If I could get the time back—

I'd spend it alone with a glass of red wine and a good book, we say.

rattle lips,
be the air conditioner's vent,
on the bent, the bent,
bet the insides of your sister's thighs
for this month's rent,
two-step, lip balm, and liquor,
turpentine, fashion gurus,
and abortion clinics,
everyone's afraid of fairy tales
and heart disease,
your mother's a nurse
for your fathers hedonistic purse,
i found the id,
follow me to the id,
i found the id,
it lies under sheet,
under sleeve,
under bleeding wrist,
and callused bride,
dig graves in the image of god,
die in the name of everlasting life?
vision trips amidst weary moons,
silver slivers
on past treasures sail on sinking ships,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the harlot,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the wind,
we ride 'em both and write home
of only the wind,
history books, history books,
paint me heroic,
history books, history books,
i've got hooks to sell,
children to condition,
and banners to wave,
god save america,
god save america,
god save the liar,
the creep,
my mother,
my *****,
and everyone of
my summer homes,
and each of my televisions,
and each crevice i can crawl into,
and each dream i can divide.

She places her book, marked with
a coupon I've been meaning to use,
on the nightstand. She turns the light
out on her side. It's her side, her light.
The left side is mine.

Night.

Night.

We're past clutching love. We're
not married, but I think I know
what it means. It's two lonely
people; it's two sides of the bed.
It doesn't take her long to fall asleep.
I watch her forehead unwrinkle.
I listen as her inhales and exhales
become spaced and even. At this moment,
I do not know her. She's not a woman.
All the inviting curves collapse. She is
a girl breathing in, breathing out.

In a memory she related to me--I think
she related to me--she asks a boy to give her
a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess.
She has waited. He says no. This is my swing.
She says it is the school's. He says the school
isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why
she told me this story or some story like it.

I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't
fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more
minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams
of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in
her private night. I do not know her. She
looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape,
facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her?
Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter;
she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being
scared for and of.

I turn on the fan. She stirs.

I'm sorry. I'll turn it off.

You can leave it on.

I'll turn it off.

Leave it.

She pulls my arm under her neck.
She brings her bottom against my thighs.

Will you hold me? Just for a second.

I can hold you longer.

Just a second.

step into the light--
show yrself--
my black-eyed,
horned,
*******--
stir me up,
shut me out,
string me up--

end tonight.
the pools
of fear
swirling in your belly
drown the saneness
of my eccentric existence.
end tonight.

step into the light--
show yrself to me,
dripping with sweat,
draining me of strength,
drilling me with smartmouthings--

poison crib.
poison crypt.
pretty curls.
petty cruelty.

hitting bricks,
slitting necks,
creeping beasts,
show yrself.

the moon
beckons you.
the mercy
forgets you.
my fist
tightens.
my blood lightens.
endtimes
begin
with the sanctity
of illumination.

In Room 204 of the Lancaster Motel,
I ease myself into the bath.
Music plays. It's the kind
of pan flute and finger-picked
guitar tune you hear over fuzzed out speakers
in grocery stores. I don't know the source.
The place smells of mildew
and cheap coffee and self pleasure
and Febreeze. I'm tired.
More tired than I've ever been, I think.
Do I still have a job? Until I call in to check, I suppose.
And I suppose this pocket knife will have to do.
I never seem to have a corkscrew on hand when
my mood calls for wine. I stab and jimmy the cork
until I can pry it loose with my teeth. A few
bits of cork float on the surface of the wine.
This does not stop me, nor slow me.
Pollyanna and I stayed in 206,
a detail that calls attention to itself, a detail that
longs for a poetic phrase,
yet I feel little other than the
dull thud of coincidence.
I remember asking her
before that first time if
she thought of *** as
a form or erasure or
addition. She said
both sounded nice.
And something
in the way she said nice,
led me to believe
she landed on an unspoken
third option.  I no
longer had an appetite for *** that evening,
but we acted on it to satisfy expectation.
She turned down the air conditioner,
and we laid there shivering and saying little.
She told me not to leave her.
I said I wouldn't.
I'm in the tub now and the bottle is almost empty
and all of this is so selfish and stupid
and I'm just doing it for the sake of habit
and sad sack poetry and ultimately
an "I-Eat-*****" consolation fedora in heaven. And I'm
self aware but the trajectory spirals against my will.
And my life entire burns a little slapstick,
so I get outside of myself--watch, enjoy.

No home, no front door to unlock,
a life of roams, tires burning rock.
With powders, pills, and subpar poisons,
I remember your childish face,
the reddish furl of your hair;
your spine-tingling body strut cascading into French heels.
No luck, no fat genie or 7 on the die,
rainy bucks, broken umbrella with sigh.
Like songbirds, sirens, and symptoms
gracefully disappear without a note of gloom,
your smile, the original resurrection,
slides from tangible memory -- into mythos -- into misery.

The trees overlapped
overhead creating a warm
cloister.
Harvey's car cooed past
the vibrant green
and sputter-stopped
at the plastic, fishhead
mailbox.
He drove up the grey gravel drive,
hopped out of his car and
with eager stride
headed toward
the door of the widow Prine.
"Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine
greeted from behind the screen
in her always-sugary-hushed tone.

"Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret."

"Haha, you remembered this time.
C'mon in, sweetie."

Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks
in wooden floor.
Pictures of Mrs. Prine's
three children lined the walls.

"That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby,"
Mrs. Prine beamed.

"She's a cutie."

"Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up
some magazines lying on the couch,
"feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink?
Some wine, maybe? It's a red."

"Sure, sure. Sounds good."

Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen,
as the evening news played at a barely
audible volume.

"Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the
fridge, Harvey."

"That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--"

"Margaret."

"Margaret, I can drink it warm."

"How about some ice cubes?"

"That works too."

Mrs. Prine's husband died
driving an 18-wheeler,
six-miles outside of Dallas
two or three years ago.
One of the few times
a sedan won a war
against a big engine.

Her cheek bones
jutted sharply from
her face,
deep crimson lipstick
and light eyeshadow
emphasized her
few deep wrinkles,
as if she wore them
with pride.

They sat sipping lukewarm
red wine, saying nearly nothing--
touching only during commercial
breaks.

When the news ended,
Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand,
led him to the bedroom,
filled with pictures of her and her husband.

The love they made--
textbook in its precision,
light in its passion--
finished chapter,
Harvey reached for his cigarettes.

"Sweetie, please don't smoke in here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret."

Harvey stared at her old life's relics,
wrapped his arm around her,
pulled her naked flesh against his,
a summer breeze crawled through
open window,
and Harvey said,

"So, tell me more about your husband."

Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair
out of her eyes,
and with a retrospective sigh,
she began.

None of the cuts of meat looked familiar to me. Eve had sent me out for T-bones that afternoon. Her folks were coming by to see the new place in the evening, and, after hearing good things about New Bhaktapur from one of her girlfriends, there was no other place to go.

A thick layer of dust covered the glass display case of boneless and shapeless red sheets. Each piece had been cut thin. There were no rib eyes, no N.Y. strips. Instead, the names of the selections suggested what the customer was to gain: Vitality, Stamina, Wisdom, Charisma, and, of course, ****** Ferocity. Under the glass, the meats sat in braided grass baskets, lined with yesterday's news.

The butcher, a brown-skinned, middle-aged man with a round jaw and soft shoulders, wiped his gloveless hands on his white apron, adding a brighter red to the overlapping splashes of dried blood already present. He reached over the counter to shake my hand.

"No, no. No T-bones," he said. "Not even in the back, no. I not do bones. Not because I don't have a bone saw--though I don't--because why? Right? Why bones? Do you eat bones? your name again? Joosh. Yes, Joosh. Good name. Do you eat bones, Joosh? Of course not. If you did, I tell you get out. You mental. Right? And I'd be right. No bones. I see confusion. No, it's okay. It's okay. No blush. No need. What's the word? Embare--embarrassed, yes, thank you. No need be embarrassed."

The bell chimed. A black-haired boy of six or seven, with round, wet eyes and what I supposed was chocolate about his lips, strolled in, chin up.

"Namaskāra, pāpā," the boy said.

"Namaskāra, baccā. Rāmrō dina ahilēsam'ma?"

"Hō."

"Rāmrō. Kahām̐ āphnō bā'ika hō?"

"Yō nala dvārā bāhira chan."

"Malā'ī ēka pakṣa kē."

"Hō, pāpā."

"Ṭhīka cha, phirtā garna kō lāgi jā'ō ra āphnō kāra khēlna?"

"Ṭhīka cha."

As the boy, chin now lowered, sulked into the back of the store, the butcher turned back to me and said, "My son. Apple of my eye. You have an apple? No? A good woman? You be blessed. A good woman hard to find, harder to keep. Right? What were we saying before?"

"I didn't need to be embarrassed."

"Yes. No need. Let me tell you about meat. All I have--I have beef."

"How can I tell what part of the cow it comes from? The ****, the ****--that stuff."

"You cannot. You choose what you want to be. I can tell you don't need Wise. You already too smart for good--for your own good? For your own good, yes."

"But you know."

"Know what?"

"Where the cuts come from?"

"In a way, yes, but in another truer way, no. Do you describe you in such words?"

"What do you mean?"

" 'Oh my **** hurts.' 'Oh my ***** ache.' 'Stop hitting my upper flank.' Do you say these?"

"Well no."

"No. Why? Why would you? You mental if you did. They awful words. Science words. I do not see myself as science. Do you? No. You don't even need to answer. You got good woman. Love pumps in your heart. You energy, right? You can feel that. If you with the right woman you feel hers too. So why not the same with what you take in? What you eat? Not to scare you, never my intention, I couldn't tell you if the cow I process this morning have spots or no. Is it real Angus? Is it real California? I do not know. This is not how I see, not what I'm looking for."

"What are you looking for?"

"I guess I'm touching for, not looking for so much. Forgive. I do this so long I feel, I know what important, what I need, and what my customer need. You think me fool because I know not the science, I have no bone saw."

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it. I touched that, too."

"I didn't mean to offend."

"You not offend me. You challenge. I like the challenge. I like to show you what enlightenment means. Not a divine moment, not a smart moment but a touch, a touch that knows the truths beyond the limit of your vision, beyond the chains of your English. I feel the Vitality as I cut. I feel the Wisdom, and Charisma. You think silly but will you try?"

"I'll try it."

The butcher wrapped up four thin slices of Vitality in brown paper. He tied the string. "This," he said, bundling up two more slices of ****** Ferocity, "this is for you and your good woman. What is her name?"

"Eve."

"Ah. The mother of the world," he said. "Joosh, my new friend, have a real day."

The bell chimed. A child's bike rested on a hydrant outside. It was overcast but that was fine. I couldn't remember where I parked my car and that was fine, too.

I read a story the other day.
I read the headline.
It said: There is no god and we are his prophets.
We drive slowly on Saturdays.
At night in our home there are noises,
the dull thumps of ghosts.
We used to comment. Now we rollover.
I wake and return the blankets I’ve stolen.

In the mornings there is music.
A kitchen dance of tip-toes and arms at war with air.
The new car with its heated seats.
There’s a pace I like.
It’s microwaved tea;
it’s 11:30 a.m.;
it’s one more chapter before.

I listen to you get ready,
a chorus of tubes uncapped
and capped, of hairdryers
plugged and unplugged.
You sing softly.
I hear this, too.

Beyond this house,
a brook, a mountain, a trout.
Distances mapped.
Plans drawn with
parallel lines, listless and drifting.
Within,
there is no god, and he is love,
and we are his prophets.
You are my practitioner.
And I, yours.

**** near me
with perfection talking blues,
caressing crystal drinks,
promising future sneak,
and blanketed romance,
**** near me
with hissing tape violence,
milking the moment,
snagging the attention of the suit
and the tie,
**** near me
blowing every ambition in the room,
plunging into whiskey,
head first and lonely,
**** near me
sha-la-las and oooh-la-las
slither into my forked crypt,
staining my funeral garb,
plastering my cask,
**** near me
brothers looking for to see,
while sister ***** the poison,
I dare her to keep pushing,
**** near me
the kissing and the clowning,
the nightgowning I soon to go a' drowning,
cockroach in the corner,
**** near me
Miranda owes me fifty,
the filthy ******* creature,
draining me of chatter,
**** near me
hustling for the saddest rent,
sleeping with the butcher,
under Martha's tent,
**** near me
the crows collect seed,
the know-hows bashfully reread,
while I **** near wearied, worried;
bleed.

Rain on tin
the pang and elasticity of
time and the time it
takes nature to sway
from right to left
from outer to inner
to notice the girl
on the edge of the room
with a drink in her hand
and then there's that
old lightning, self-proclaiming
its importance to the
gymnasium with grumbling
thunder then we're all
tossing dice and teaching
each other dance moves,
saying the ******* the edge
needs a pair of new shoes
and someone responds:
Isn't that the woman who kills?

And I go home with her
rain on tin and a summer
wade through Cottonwood Creek
we're in a shed
and it's musty, dangerous,
and possible
a killer takes certain care
of your body with her
cautious hands.

I find myself in a coverless Italian summer.
Grass browned. Skin freckled.
I find myself impatient,
no longer willing to entertain
the destinies of the salt and sea.
I edit video of you in a cobbled basement.
There's a knowing look that lasts four seconds.
I split it into six fragments and set it in reverse,
an unknowing, a deletion.
The crook of your neck
and shoulder blade. The red of your hair.
Some nights I hang from the rails. Five minutes.
Ten. And pull myself up.
Tented and mad by August,
stabbing ice with a little
black cocktail straw.
How can I change my
How can I love my
How can I erase my
body?
The rains wet me.
The wind wrings me.
This city we used to walk
under streetlights.
Now I bike through,
pedaling, furious and blind,
toward a place I don't know until
I arrive, and I kiss a young woman
who looks a lot like me. I ask her
to say my name over and over.
I want to fully occupy the moment,
the space, this time. Her lips
remain closed and her
hands linger on my shoulders
and no music plays and
there are voices, loud and
happy, speaking a language
that's completely new.

Boldly, bold balding,
going mad at the buzz of cynic critic--
busting friendships like comic watermelons
atop bloodstained ceramics,
the vultures remain--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, sipping
tomato juice without gin due the doctor's call--
always do;
I can see it all boldly while scraping dirt under nails,
scattering my words at a heel'd walk-in and siren's call.

Boldly, bold balding,
flipping off motorist and through magazine pages--
repairing family ties with thank you notes, faux kind eyes,
never hurt to try,
for the vultures remain -- they won't give their name--
never do;
I can see it all boldly while balding, they ask me
to give two ***** -- when did I give one?
Never do;
I can see it all mostly and smearing, watercoloring
through the floorboards up to the ceiling;
the telephone sings, I answer and receive,
"stay the hell away from me",
and I will.

I will.

I really, really will.

A bat of the eyes, a flick of the wrist,
a ruffle of sleeve, a daydream,
a heartattack kiss and
I'm gone, no time to grieve--
all the leaves of prose and bad poetry,
perhaps you'll remember me-
during those halcyon afternoons,
when the coffee brews,
distant church bells ring out
a panhandler's tune no one can sing to,
but we used to dance it through
in damp clothes and into dark rooms--
a life lost in desperate minutes,
forbidden fruits and daggers of knowledge
were all we could taste, feel in the midst
of the misery in simply existing,
and woman you're free to rise above me,
stare from the balcony,
while I reenact a lifetime of sin
on a half-lit stage, far from the lilac's bloom,
never will I dress as a groom,
nor will I sleep under the same moon,
that was miles ago, summers away from here,
a mythical love taken to sea,
oh, it's easy to miss what never could be.

Shake the demon lover
in the effulgent post-Chelyabinsk world,
where death breathes you back
into yourself and backwards you walk
through those coupled images, so posed,
charged with feigned desire,
the lighting just right,
the angle meticulous,
smushing foreheads with golden rings
on your fingers.
You had a dog.
You had a crockpot.
A kid was on the way.
Shake the demon lover,
rip yourself from her arts district loft,
where the music is in French and always beautiful,
glide down the rusted rails,
cruise past the headshops, the pawnshops,
say the word Tuesday and wonder if it means anything
other than the third day of the week.
You shared a bed.
You shared a bed.
You shared a bed.
Shake the demon lover
and her words track you,
her text reads,
"Come over, friend."
And she calls you friend,
she shouts you friend,
she pants you friend,
as you end the affair for
the sixth, seventh, eighth
time, one last couch
**** and never speak
to me again.

collapse into the bed.

i love the hours we ****,
the hours when our feet
forget the floor.

close your eyes.
pleasure centers and crazer neurons.
old soul music and moans.
****** asian neighbors and some televised war.

every sorrow dissipates,
every worry alleviates,
and every thought is silenced
by white knuckles grappling with skin.

"Last summer I went to this wedding,
and the dude had a black wedding ring.
It was really cool.
And cheap."

"A black wedding ring?"

"Yeah, it was like fifty bucks,
made out of titanium alloy.
The only problem is-"

"I knew there was going to
be a problem."

"No, it's not a big deal, sheeesh.
Now, as I was saying,
the only problem is if the ring
gets stuck on your finger,
they can't cut off the ring.
They have to cut off your finger."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound like a
major problem. Fifty bucks for
a black ring, that looks kinda cool,
only to have it chopped off,
along with your finger."

"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.

"That'd be good. Just to be outside."

"Right. It's pleasant this evening."

Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.

The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.

The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.

A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.

Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.

Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.

Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only ******* in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.

"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,

"Your daughter?"

"Yes."

"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."

"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******."

"What about--"

"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."

"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--******--Margaret."

"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."

The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.

"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."

"I'll see you then, Harvey."

Zigzag the stitch
and rub a little jelly

rickshaw fresh
mama to baby

turnstile linen and
swaddle

good times
soon to follow

simulcast the
charged circumstance

mother, verdant
mother, vessel
mother, hollow

forecast past
the sleepless
and bloodless

fixate on
first steps, first days,
first sorrows

dumbfounded fully
by where it all started

adulthood summoned
by a little ****** and folly.

It's funny when you need someone to be free.
When the steering wheel isn't liberation,
when you spot smiles from your so-called friends,
and they only put you on pins and needles,
when every word you release must walk the tightrope of judgement,
as starving eyes wait on tradgedy.

It's hard to stay happy when your lover isn't around.
When all the guilt and high crimes circle like vultures,
when your distant relatives keep asking, "are you sure you're okay?"
When everyone paints you as bitter and self-loathing
because you want life to mean much less than this.

It's the memories tying us together.
"Soon" becomes the lifeline, the encourager.
Future prophecies of coffee, blankets, catnaps,
bad movies, and late night discussions subdue the hours.

So,
I'm sorry if I seem coarse.
I'm sorry if I seem vengeful.
But terrible thoughts abound,
when my freedom is away.

Every true crime documentary resides in me.
Binge used to be tied to drinking. The language, I think,
is evolving, and I walk the black part of town at
night on a double dare from a lady poet whose
lexical purview lies somewhere between her
**** and the moon. I'm a beacon of fairness,
fair trade coffee stains my teeth, my lenin pants
imported from Bali are ethically made, and I speak
in a respectable and thoughtful half whisper
like the women of the QVC.
I return to the loft free of gunshot wounds
and love my lady poet thin and love my lady poet
tall and she says confusion is the only sustainable
state of being and I say I can agree with that and
she says she's been thinking about transitioning
and I say into more responsibility at work? and she
says haha no. Into a man.
And three weeks later I watch her read a poem
entitled "Traffic My **** Transgender *** to Heaven,"
she goes home with one, two, three Sylvia Plath lookalikes,
and I get swabbed at the doctors and I get prescribed
a moderate dose of Effexor and I speak in high school
Spanish to my office crush — she's from Venezuela, I think.
Power. Control. Stockings, I tell her, I have a thing for stockings
and pink cotton socks. One more drink and I'll hit my
groove. Chill. Power. Control. Put on that soul song I like.
Didn't I do it, baby?

The shirtless poet,
he writes on the fourth floor.
Corner of Bedlam and Squalor.
He’s running two experiments:
Ingesting only whiskey and
texting only ex-girlfriends.
He keeps a journal.
The title is
The Dishonest and the Deceased.
He’s seven days and forty-one pages in.
He’s sent 63 images of both himself and
empty bottles.
Three different women have shared his bed,
and each subsequent morning departed
with a similar sentiment: this never happened.
He’s drank ten liters, placed the empty bottles
on top of the cabinets. Proof. Yeah, I’ve been drinking.
I guess you can tell, he said. I’ve got friends.
Just haven’t seen them in a while.
He said he’s getting closer to the center.
Of what? Woman No. 2 asked.
Of myself.
I wouldn’t do that. Whatever you do.
It’ll help my.
Don’t do that.
My art.
This isn’t art.
I am art.
You’re drunk.
I can remember the first time.
I’m starting to.
What does.
Nothing.
You’re leaving.
No. Well.
The first time. Your grandma’s shed. 2007, 2008.
I’ve got work in.
I remember the smells.
The morning, she said.
The dew, the grass, the sweet wind.
Please.
Your husband’s no ******* poet.
I.
Let me remind you how poets love.

The air conditioner hiccuped.
A taxi door slammed outside.
A helicopter dipped past Squalor.
Through the window a beam of light.

But this never happened.
This never happened, he said.

at ease, hideous you
with blood o'prey
dribbling down
your well-crafted
dimples.

eager ears surround,
live to make meaning
off your rehashed
sentiment you *****
from some recent-dead
and righteous boy.

and i admire you.

yes, yes, yes i do.

oh, enemy
playing us all for fools,
eating us all alive,
we townsfolk don't
give you the torch or pitchfork,
just our unending applause.

I brought her one flower
from the cemetery I borrowed
love leads to death
but it can work the other way
so the blackbird on the telephone wire say
I brought her one flower
a bouquet -- wasteful, sour
too many kisses cheapen
how else to pay by the hour
so the meadowlark's **** showers
I brought her one flower
in a corduroy suit, sunglassed tower
a corkscrew and 12 apostles
too far from shore, too young to cry
so the stupid penguin tries to fly
I brought her one flower
in some water, a tired bower
"I didn't try my hardest."
"I know." Wish my *** to the moon
So the robin lets out a morose croon

With every kiss I cast,
I hope I hold you right,
my little wishing well.

You told me my sad eyes,
cut you like hot knives,
I buried my head below your whys,
did that make it alright?

My pretty one, of you, I'm terrified,
my monstrous actions you pacify,
sweet words fall from your sweet heart
and warm whatever purity is left in me.

All our barriers broken,
the secrets gently spoken,
all alone in my room,
I took some time
to resurrect with you.