Shut our door,
they want our light,
don’t let them in —
mosquitoes.

Our ears will buzz
and we won’t rest,
through bite and itch
the moon will pass.
With neon glow
under our skins,
our dreams of us
will fade like stars.
You’ll slap me twice
for all my faults
and say, “There goes
another one,”
as we both lie
behind covers
and restless plays
the scapegoat.

We’ll blindly rap
'till sun peeks up
and wince at greet,
“Good morning.”

There are places you exist
in a flowing green dress
that kneads against your body
with every passing breeze
and sand nips at your heels
as you curt by tonned blocks
of cement that smother grass
just off the sidewalk.
They nuzzle киоск stand,
and long to lift self up
to a sea-blue, backdrop dream
that dissolves for years (and years)
and erodes to sewers beneath
with every Charlotte rain
and crumble once again;
a gray-eyed contrast true
of beauty vining through
a city that snuffs roots.

You, and there you go.

Lamb and sheep
lay side by side
and goes
the earth below.

Awake at rise
of sun and skies
because
they do not know.

That men do fight
and **** and thrive
on blood
of other men.

Of food and life,
of grief and strive,
no yield
nor without bend.

Through hills and lakes
the nocturnes sound
and still
knowledge eludes.

Or do they lie,
not with their mouths,
because
they know the Truth.

For they will live,
and we will die;
Cattle,
their keep alive.

And so they sleep,
stories they tell
themselves
in bleat and baa.

They do not speak
of what they can’t,
how true
can sophists be.

For with the sheep
and lamb we lie,
we lie
to keep alive.

The truth is
spring broke open,
I wish it were winter again.
Bodies about, walking
arm in arm and
no matter how much
I practice pacing my steps,
dodging the torn-cornered
slabs of concrete
to avoid breaking my stride,
my confidence, my ankle,
I always seem to stumble
with a hand interwoven in mine.

Dexterity seeps out
through my heels,
but lets be honest,
boots aren't the best attire for
sturdy, balanced walking.
This weight
(I'd guess)
presses down on my shoulder
where the collarbone meets
whatever the other bone is called,
and the person is on a stepstool
(yes, there's a person),
floating next to me as I move
and the his heel of his palm,
the meaty part,
presses where the bones meet
(could be, I'd guess, a very masculine She)
and leaning forward, tiptoed
on the top step and
the weight is coming down hard.

How anyone could walk like that!
Me, the town *******,
the drunk staggering about
trying to keep footing.
Even thinking it, projecting it,
makes it true,
especially when arguing,
no, just receiving a nice, hearty
reprimanding from babushkas
(a group of them)
with their knit hats abloom,
selling cabbage and honey
outside the Belarusian kiosk.

Now, I know what you're thinking,
and yes, the honey is delicious;
but just because they're together
doesn't mean they need to be.
Boiled cabbage and honey
for colds.
And honestly, it's not the weather
to be stopping on the sidewalk
in jeans-shoes-tee-shirt
only to hear curses
(no, not swears — lit. curses)
spat out crooked mouths,
clinging to you
all the season through.

A ***** sent into the ground
and a water bottle spills over
with the energy of a page read
in distressed silence after hours.

The truth is that no man
or woman
waits for no one when being
sent off to a deserted plane
on a 6am flight, eve
of the new year.

It’s comical to believe
that things follow one
another in the day-to-day
reality and trenches of
day-in day-out, kiss-another
to get one’s fill and float.

He waits and she waits,
but it’s him and her with
“and” being the operative.
"And," leading the way
in the wait for what
must make sense.

And sensing the ground
in flight keeps you up,
late into the night
contemplating the “and,”
and the “but,”
and the games we play
with language.

A barren home,
but not of things,
where silence wanders
curiously
down the empty halls.
"Who's there?"
She stands to peek
through door ajar
at the dust  ::BOOM::
on the floor.  ::BOOM::

Nothing's stirred
and all's in place
and all is still
but subject’s face:
fieldstone hues
and wrinkles too.
A desol't eve
in fickle blue,
she’s marching dusk
with throated heart.

Purpled cirri
and pinholes white
high above her
stalwart ceiling.
Shunted thought.
Listless thunder.
Turn on heel
to pinioned sleep;
a reeling sanct,
an effete lover.

Wrinkled hands
will chatter hymns
on a bustled sidewalk
where the blind
can nearly eye
an escalating steam,
the burning energy
from indiscernible means
and still the echoed singing
is sung song too far gone.

“No thing to some thing.”
She omitted the return.
He was waiting for it,
oh so patiently.

Echoes wander round
while deep into my knees
the splintered bony compact
from moonlight-late retreats
and chewy marrow screaming
from in between your teeth.
We chant a near return,
a spine-tingling scene
of empty pews contemplating
Friday chapel peace.