Her lips,
indica,
leave my body,
sunken.

I
wanna
grab ya
by the hinds
and split
ya open
for a grande
Hoorah!

Pressed up against the wall, her arch creaked, her spine sang and my right held her at the base and my left wrapped in her silk mane.

Wasted
and wasted,
I’d **** for hydration.

What a blessing,
to lift your beams
above the clouds,
giving way to your heavens.

She leaped,
flipped,
twirled,
and dipped,
with her hips,
so quick,
I came,
to my senses,
before I slipped,
in it.

Wasted
and wasted,
I’d **** for hydration.

Lift those beams
above the clouds,
so I may drink
from your heavens.

She asked for my name;
It was too late for that,
she sunk into her sheets
as I took a ****,
a can of coke,
and walked out the door.

It was hot, and I was starving.

The air was thick and dry, causing flies to drown as they land on your scorching skin. Drunk, I pray for water but I get Guadalupe. She hugs and kisses me stating that I will live forever because she was just blah blah blahing about me. The world quakes in my head until she blesses me with a sealed bottle of polish springs. I shower my tongue with it, wringing out the cuff of my shirt to get every drop. 

Now, famine was left to conquer.

"Come over. I live two flights up with a comfy bed just callin' for ya'."

I guess clam soup it is.

The river dances in the rain,
veiled by white fog,
with ducks flocking
beneath the bushes.

A man stands nearby,
damning his life,
for the pavement serves
as a cemetery
for his wife's birthday cake.

What a bad day,
to be a beautiful sight.

The rain passed.

My laundry hangs,
wet and heavy,
for all to see,
as they pass the yard.

"****'em."

She had me on the ground,
belly pressed against the winter wooden creaking floor,
with my arms at the side,
and her pistil to my face.

I sit in a little pocket within the diner, a booth with a window overlooking the highway. I'm waiting for my ice cream shake to come to room temp just enough to slurp through a straw. I notice a young man with a green cardigan chasing a young lady in a red sweatsuit on the highway. It feels as if I'm watching an episode of Tom and Jerry. I giggle. The young lady removes her sweater and tosses it towards incoming cars. Cars begin to screech through the thick glass.

"******!"

My shake is now ***** water, which I chug in a gulp. I then look out the window to notice that traffic is back to normal. I wonder if she abandoned the sweater or the young man.

I sit
****
and think
about the
choices I’ve
made to
put myself
here on
this ****
tinged porcelain.

"Your lips are like honey, and your kisses are like wine." She whispered as she sat on my forearm in her thin sweatpants.

She was right.

My words are sweet,
and cap hearts like a breast,
in golden amber.

Like wine,
my kisses stain,
if settled,
fermented,
way before she came.

From the bottom of the barrel
with previously crushed grapes.

You know about mops?
I know a lot about mops,
way more than you'll ever know about mops.

There are flats,
sponges,
dust,
string,
strip,
steam,
spin,
and microfiber ones.

That's just for the house.

"Sorry, Bud but I have to head-on home. I'll see ya after this whole thing passes." Charles says as he leaves the room.

My pops.

My pops,
used them his whole life
to feed me.

My pops
knew everything about mops.

I’ve fallen from the tree,
not far from it.

A product of my environment,
a sinner.

Drunk,
and starving
I stumble
tumbling
into a hole
in the wall
where I order the cheapest thing on the menu,
pancakes.

I lean against a nearby counter,
staring at my feet below,
measuring distance,
as I time my spit.

Slip,
from my lips.
Drip,
on the tip,
of my wing-tipped,
shoe.

After eternity,
they call my number,
I was ready to go.

The callow man places the dish on the counter
then slides it over to me and asks "The works?"

I nod stupidly.

He then proceeded, with gloved hands, to smash my flapjack and streak odd colored syrups, concluding with a confectioners' sugar storm from above.

"Enjoy."

Drunk,
and starving
I stumble
tumble
out of a hole
in the wall
where I regret ordering the cheapest thing on the menu.

This may be the last
it may be the best
if not
then the worst
but
at least
they’d say
he did his best
‘til the end.

Sometimes
Madmen
need a
little
push.

I look down at my plate, watching as melted whipped cream flows, ebbing on the lip of the dish. Orange zest peeks out from beneath golden debris. Although I do not see it, vanilla dances on the nose, twirling clementines below. 

It's more of a symphony than it is a meal. Defacing it with one scoop, a loop, and a swallow.

“This is the worst rendition of southern peach cobbler.”

I ****** in the corner over there,
below the lamp post
where we shared our first kiss.

I scratched our initials
into the steel pillar.

It felt good,
claiming that light post
for your next lover
to whiff out.

the words that slip
off of your lips,
fill my curiosity to the rim.

My weak
wink
weeps
willow
wreaths
willfully
without
wilting.

Ladle!
Cable!
Cradle!
Dreidel!

               [Smack] across the rear.

“I forgot the ******* word!

               [Smack] across the rear.

Sometimes
I wake
to water you.

Sometimes
I wake
to adore you.

Sometimes
I lay
awake
wanting
to pluck you

I woke up today,
forgiving myself
for letting you leave
with an empty stomach.

I wake up beneath rubble,
slowly getting up and dusting my self off.

A woman blindsides me,
attacking.

I threw her out the window,
listening to her scream
as she's removed from the scene.

An oscar?
Maybe.

For now just a scene
in a movie starring me.

It’s been a long time
since I last wrote
to you.

You didn’t bother
to check-in
on me.

So tonight
I write to you.

*******.

You waste away
reading waste all day
when you can
read one a day
and find true poetry
sitting,
dying away.

I
feel it
all
around
me.

loosening my grip
a swift pinch
and the roach
floats
                 a
                      y .
             w
         a

I wake up, **** drunk, with a headache that quakes at my temples and somewhere towards the rim of the tail of my head, that dense pocket. It takes my brain for a spin while I’m removed.

I attempt to get myself up off the seat I fell asleep in. My grip slips on the wood grain handles. It’s imported legs rub against the wooden floors, shrieking.

I try once more.

I triumph.

I slinky over to the kitchen where I wash my face in the sink, hoping to rinse off some alcohol that has seeped through my pores.

The frigid water wakes me up, opening up my lungs at whatever time it may be, wherever I may be.

Her house sat on the edge of a hill, up there with the shot callers. She was an entrepreneur who was interested in representing me; she said she can make me the next Bukowski.

I laughed. “There will never be another Bukowski.”

Her living room laid in the house's corner, like roadkill, surrounded by three glass windows in place of walls. I saw no speakers, but Coltrane played throughout.

Fifteen minutes into my poetry, she suggested we drink, which led us to inhale several bottles of red. She would make comments about some of them, followed by reasons for unbuttoning her shirt. From my seat I watched the sun fall from the sky, dragging bright yellow with her as the Moons blanket draped.

“I love it,” she said, “We can take this around the world.”

I liked that.

I like it when people genuinely like my pieces; it fills my void of existence.

I thanked her.

We danced in celebration until we ended up on the floor, dizzy and hot. She started working her hands, creating paths on my body.
She assured me she didn’t do this often. This was new to her.

I believed her.

Her eyes confirmed it.

She got up from the floor, telling me she would wash up and for me to wait in her bedroom, the second door to the right next to the bathroom.

She hurried off.

I walked over to the enormous windows and looked out to the city; it was gorgeous, then I walked my *** out of there.

I figured she wouldn’t be able to help me because there will never be another Bukowski.

Look at that
I’m having therapy
through an iPad
while reading
about Kim
fighting for C-******
in my
Mother
In-laws
room.

I read a lot of poetry.

Many by poets
who think they write good poetry
and many by writers
who think they write bad poetry.

I guess I have a thing
for bad poetry.

Tsk,
tsk,
what a bliss.

Good whiskey
and miss.

Not even cupid's arrow
can save this.

Past mid,
past night,
passed the front door,
and out of my life.

I've once dreamt of getting into a shuttle
and spearing towards Saturn.

From my calculations,
I'd most certainly go off-course,
and possibly snap
and pop towards the sun.

It's a win-win situation.

I remember
how it felt
to give
a ****.

Have you ever placed a shard of dry ice in a bottle of water, capped it, and tossed it out the window, like a grenade, as it frolics with gravity, and strikes the center of the only open trash can just for it to lay there spilling.

Sometimes **** doesn't go according to plans.

De
press
i
on.

I gained consciousness, slowly opening my eyes to a kaleidoscope of beaut.

Her soft pink lips revealed her perfect teeth as a stalk of some sort danced in it as it balanced between her left thumb and index. I could not make out the rest of her beautiful brown face, but I knew I didn't need to see more.

She was perfect.

She asked if I was okay; I nodded as I slowly fell back into the void.

When I rose again, she was no more.

I don't remember my name, but I know I fell in love.