This is addressed to the ears of whatever is wrong with me.

*******.

I will not break.

If you think this might be about you, please, don't stop reading.
Though I might not know you yet I have probably encountered you before.
We probably avoided colliding but secretly we wanted to. Maybe you are one of the boys on the bus who, for a sixteenth of a second makes my heart pound and my fingertips go numb, hoping that you'd notice me.

I want you to play your tongue across the piano keys of my teeth.
I want us to sing the themes of Pucchini operas while we make rainy Sunday pancakes.
I want to walk with you through the vineyards of your homeland.
Let me take the weight of your world and put it somewhere beneath my shoulders,
for me to carry with me.
I will never use us in the past tense.
We will never look sad in photographs
and our airmail correspondances will be kept in floral boxes and hidden
for one of our daughters to discover.
Our love will be in the brushstrokes of Signac and Monet.

We will discover that the island of Hawaii
is like the excess emotions of the world
that have congealed out of the earth
to be comforted by the rocking waves.
The sunsets hearts of the people will welcome us.
On the black earth
they walk
their hands filled with sun bleached coral stones.
And they spell out messages and write out the names of the ones they love
so even God can read what's in their hearts.

And when the world takes you from me
which it undoubtably will
I will scatter your ashes in the places we have walked.
along the vineyard trails
and the mountain peaks
and in the deepest oceans we crossed for one another
I will let go of you
let you leave my hands on the winds that rush through Death Valley
while I drive along the same highway
that we carved together.
And I will return to the island of Hawaii
carrying white stones to write out your name
for God to read.

Sitting by the fire, you stretch,
And breathe. The air is stiff,
Perfumed with insensitivity.
But to whom does this mysterious perfume belong?
For I am quite certain that it is not mine.
Your eyes stare,
My cheeks flush.
Our mouths show shameful smiles.
Slowly we lay on the ground,
Where the cooler air resides.
There is no overbearing perfume here,
Only the fire, the night,
And time.

L
  e
T'sD
         oTonight
             hard. we'll finger ginger prematurely. immaturely. and
offended glossy cheeks. the fair legs, forever apart, the night's
begging panting heaving & yes let's
                                                          o­D
                                                         2
                                                       nite
                                       impossibly posing
                                     prosing nosing (it smells red
                               and neon). guns are our bones.
                             sensibly obscure the daft incommensurable
                           s,m'og O' inside the pooch, the slumping curve
                         the curbs and dancing, the jostling snort
                        of brain's panes behind them saying just faces.
                        unchaste faces. a multitudinous saliva teeming
                         young wagging hems lifted with my fingers
                          going under your cotton and right up
                            to your "'yes'" Y
                                                        3
     ­                                                 s!

'I love you baby, you know I do. You lighten up my days', you say



Oh boy, you make me laugh. Don't you know that I
Can see right through your lies, into your eyes and I
See the *****, see the sweat, see the invisible truth:
You got a **** princess.



Ms. Morning Dew, Evening Dew, wetness all over
Ms Package Deal, with some more spilling out.
She left cheap lipstick stains on
You shirt
Your pants
('You're the only one in my life. You believe me, right?')
And down there too.


Don't you know that I can feel you hardness against
My thigh when you dream of her at night?
I can see that you're caught up in your fishnets fantasies
You live in Whoreville, baby, with her
Population: 2, Hail the queen!
You're ******* lost forever.
You got yourself a queen with a heart of lace



'I love you'*, you say



*******

He loves the way she walks, the way she rolls her eyes, the
way she says *******.
He loves her bruised lips, her scarred back,
her oily messy hair, and her skinny legs.
He loves her moans, and her black black mascara,
and the way she smirks when he calls her
beautiful.