You are perfect.
Beyond any comparable specimen
photo shopped and filleted under the surgeons knife
splattered puffy lipped across every magazine
in the dime and nickel drugstore isles.
Like some olden goddess drunken ancients
sent prayer and virgins to.
Like a pop culture piece painting
portraying perfection multicolored
and gleaming.
Like the way the sun breaks into every color of the spectrum
when it hits the clouds just above the shore line
amazing even the coldest of hearts.
Like a piece of water frozen and glimmering
with all the brilliance of the sun itself
turning fields into fiery displays with the morning dew.
Like the first message sent across the nation via telegraph
amazing everyone
and bringing wonder and mystery into the world again
as if darkness and desperation never existed
in the first place.
Like all of these things.
You are perfect,
and I don't know you.
I don't know anything about you.
The sick
the chauvinistic
the sexist
the slum dog
and cannibal
and primitive
the ****** and unforgivable
the pure drive
and urge
in me,
wants to walk up brazenly
chest puffed out to you
to say only three things.
You are perfect.
What is your name?
Will you lay with me?
But I cannot do these things
you know your perfect.
I can tell by the way you walk
the way you brush away looks like dust.
Full of pride brought on by good genes
and disdain for others.
I am a gentleman
and I could never say such things
to a person as self satisfied
and perfect in physicality
as you.

The heady aroma of youth
that nostalgic mixture:
perceived immortality,
mildly tainted innocence
determination
endless drive,
little know how,
and too much energy
and sadness.
With this stench you face the world each day
unafraid
and in pursuit
of some yet unnamed dream

I want to meet you all over again;
like it never happened that way in the first place.
Some alternate time and reality,
where logic didn't apply,
simply because we didn't need its boundaries anymore.
Then maybe
all those words and smoke,
and *** and coke,
could have just stayed choked down
and I wouldn't have to endure
these lonely thing's:
loyalty
and trustworthiness
and camaraderie.
Maybe then
in that place
at that time
something great could have happened,
and it all would have been left there.
Like all those wonderful dreams no one ever remembers having
and all those wonderful feelings and sensations
no one has felt, and so never will fiend for;
but then we wouldn't be here would we?
In this great silver lined grave
we have dug for ourselves
hoping some overlooked imperfection
could let us
just climb our way right back out
into the midst of the crowd
and insecurity,
or awareness.

I wear scars proudly
they form ruby red bracelets
and bubbled ivory emblems
stories as twisted
uninteresting
and sad
as twice smashed
roadkill