the punch line of this poem
is sweeter than the
smell of old jeans, grimy
under the cuff. it was a disingenuous summer
on our backs. earth worms
belly up in the sun.
writhing. pleading. drowning.
sand rubbing the wrong way on the calloused
cracked heels of summer.
neck slummed against
steering wheels.
burnt cheeks from leather.
tough.
I can’t remember, though.
fed on my memory more than on my body.
the clouds less appetizing than
cotton mouth: violently quiet

touch me,
terribly
the way the bed bugs do.
through wiry holes in the springs. crawling.
mechanically.

go down like the sun, still hot
bothered
gnat bites in the armpits of the knees.
closer, closer they crawl towards
skinned palates

i.
But in a dream, my eyes were bleeding into cups, into my mouth; gushing. My father told me- "the ***** is wearing off," so he called the doctor. Doctor prescribed pills. Two in the morning. Two in the night.  

Diagnosed with a tick under my eyelid, it was ******* my sight: this is why I lack foresight.

But two days later, the bleeding began again. It was mixed with water, now, a hydrating blood running out of my nose, into my mouth. Choking on inward screams, "tell me." tell me. tell me, then, what else could be wrong?

ii.
Unknown questions, for they were never asked. It  took all the day to realize the rain. The rain was hitting the tree’s cheeks in the face and I bite my tongue, brushed my teeth, going on and about until in the kitchen, I look up and realize the rain. It runs in the gutter.

iii.
Somewhere else: a papa in the front row looks down at his baby girl, shows her how to perform the cross. How do you suffer? Oh, so sweetly.

iv.
Without vision, I have you kept behind my eyelids, in a hallway with
your head pressed against the paper wall. Between walls, there exists a moment when the world isn’t what you think it is. You told me you wrote a note that I never knew of until now. There are many things I never knew of: you until you, time as something other than a line,  
and right now.  I meet you between walls and that’s enough.

the moon's crescent muscle
nurses aching bones,
grasps the hairs on the back of the throat
until mourning leaks through
the slacks in the window:
cold and whole

I thought you thought
you made a mistake and I was
ice, hooked under the bottom
of the boat floating on the heavy bay

laid heavy like my hand rolled on the
front door **** to indicate your goodbye:
outside air brushes hair off the branch,
electric and alive.

inside, the stars make a mess on the floor and
I fall asleep smelling your hands:
dishes, soap floating on your spongey palms,
scrubbing the small plate of my back.

I thought the scabs on your knuckles was from peeling
winter but it's love- violet in its violence.

i.
you were a field report
of illness 
of twenty mountains 
and mounds which 
we could not
step over. 
instead, we leeched 
upon boulders in
the sky, which 
eyed us down with specific uncertainties.
divided doubles of 
destruction,
presently

ii.
it touches the lips.
you bought me a drink.
with the tip of a glass, nations, countries, worlds
spill down my esophagus.
cosmopolitan, please
cultivate on the curve of a tonuge licking the lips 
inching upon the longitude of the spine

iii.
i guess we were dreaming
of other things, instead of right now.
when we were dreaming,
i was chewing the inside of my mouth
picking apples from orchards
where we never went.

iv.
instead of a journey of the world
it is not taking motions while i had the chance
this is natural
flinch.
this is time weaving braids
of memories with nimble fingers

v.
I’m scared to remove the splinter on the underbelly of things,
like the mold under the carpet;
both are soiled with avoidance.
we cannot apologize for
now until later,
but by then its always too late

vi.
i walk on the sides of my feet for months because
of the fear of what lurks
under, the tiles
is a growth unfolding from the center
and not a journey out, but a growing up
apart

vii.
a criminal chained to the boy in
a bed which is a sea
arms wide
and eyes like florescent
light. unnatural and ultraviolet
infectious affection

when stomach says: "you are told with erosion
that empty is to be filled."
to fill, to fill with what? everything with words because
emotion emotion, a feeling so because words told you so
for disorder to play with order,
but no? what’s between?
another morning, then.
later, then.
when things fall, they always will
will they always fall?
they fall willfully, always

when the spaces between teeth is not enough
to contain what’s oozing in:
the edge of a back,
the corner of an ankle’s ***,
bile black belly,
no other place devours like home

bubbling up, up,
over, an avalanche over mountains!
maximizing the minimal-
with everything. With everything gushes out of my mouth over the backseat of the car and my head slaps the mirror and eyes roll over like a dog woofing for a bone: savage things, ******* on the concrete and stepping on cracks.

"Stop looking down little one," mama said, "my back won’t break"-
break/short break/rapid break. You plunge forward at the sign and my eyes drop downs to the side, and Coke falls over the knee.
Droopy eyelids snap open rubber bands:
the world flies around and I’m swatting at it
grabbing at the air like a firefly.

You grip the wheel as you gripped my tongue as I crawl my head between knees: little mountains, remember? Swing over, left foot, right foot, left foot, halt, swing over to the side of the road as hard as the cushions cracked.

Memory is not the same going down as coming up:
the slide of a tongue who’s playing catch up.

The answer was always to bleed but not like this, not with you