I rob roadside grave markers
I rub my *** at the library
And I never wash my hands.
I carry a disease for my popularity,
I *** in beds and get **** in my boxer briefs.
I get by with flashbacks and I like to lick the Slime off of toads.
I deleted my birthday.
There is no reason to celebrate
Or ever allow ice cream, nor smiling.
There shall be no smiling.
I am a heathen and unforgettable
But I don't hate and I ain't racist.

If grey is a kind of blond, and white is the color it leads to
Then skin is the way we learn to touch, and hands are the way
We learn to play with one another.

Sleep is a song of breathing, legs are the way we bring ourselves to know One another, and you is the long version of I. Then I am the one that keeps you to ourselves.

Day is the way to night, night the way to longing. When I was a little child, I dreamt of a girl who I could fasten myself to sleep, and when I awoke this evening

I saw me lying inside of your beautiful skinny arms. Then pleasure was the count of two. Warm bodies gushing smiles from morning into the night.

the hotel was always blue
heavy blue like grandfather's suspenders
blue heads on slivery bodies
taking up new residence

into the tree chipper
blue new blood
plaid blue and red in blue

doctor's blue-
time capsule blue
the coast line blues
heavy waves of mystery sway

Here is the vond vedette,
Here are the congeries scopulous at the alluvion combe - a serow discovers a yawn
Within its palm. Electrical storms redd over this mountain's peaks its verbs, spate it's cwms. Lichen flux ecesis, caught in the current towards veridity.
A verderer hazed by chessile guillotines, naves hain- dwindling grike of corrasion

Indomite lithoids behooving one's obstacle of self, set by sanguine puerile innocent knosps. While the eyes howk that merriment of skin-cleft sensations into the reweaved aureoles, those many colored plumes of split flowers, which open into brightly singing dactyls of these grieving bield and obscene vocations. To the gulch of one thousand bells, and only the passive nestling interstices to anoint them

some August, July, or September. Some ordinary bliss, a magic. Your annual short-fall. An epitome, that overcomes, the hate in register octave. Time to rearrange the furniture. By now you should have found things to do at night, or Jesus. In the bedrooms where the moon men climb and claw. You are frazzled by sheets and pillow cases. The river rooks, your yellow shirt and blue jeans too. Them too. So many months have passed, so far as I could count, those moments when we grew so farther apart, or those moments, when we so closely grew together. That either, our choice of ice cream flavor became the same, or by a standard we resented the same kind of person, or on some eve not.

That it could make me shake, and sometimes even in the advesperating light I could see bits of your face in the wood paneling of my basement bedroom, or in the dissipating smoke of a cigarette I could make out a part of your cheeks and chin and nose. The small nose that I picked every chance I got. Lovely hatred, the glaring eyes you rattled me with or the sad letters and phone calls and your voice singing on my answering machine but then asking, inquiring to me. It's four in the morning and you're asking questions and I'm not speaking, my back arched and my legs and arms wrapped into my gut in the corner of the room, at the corner of my bed- that I could not April the 4th name the songs that you worshipped, if any, for tonight I could mention the acutely impossible grief, calls from the miserably disappointed. And ***** the rooms, those chairs of annoying, repetitive do-gooders, all of you, babbling buffoons in the pews and in the basements. The sides of your triangle softening into a mush, that you can't even keep your jawlines in focus. I hate you. That you could not even bare the inscription of an honesty so pronounced that it would unlock you from your tyranny of the eyes trailing off into space and nothingness, or follow the lines from the heft of your baited breaths, cold, hard *******.

There is good reason I am not god. I would spite the self-smitten, and helve the world inside out of your glory hole opus and irresistibleness. But should our letters over shine our bits, that we have lived our great adventures over, it would not be enough for me. And had you been shown the lives of our shadows, or could you not seize the light which has found you. I never forgave you, and instead, peeled my eyes back into my dry estate. Something more than every chance that was shucked from your pallid, mortal form. You were the life inside me and the words that ebbed from my infernal sores

I just wanted to make an art house out of popsicle sticks, a room out of acorns and limes. That maybe when you made your fashion dreams announced and I believed, that I could say ha-ha. An abundant melancholy shaped to a disparate creature shagged by a monster toiled in his rag and repugnance. I could have been alone in New England shaping the world on cobblestone streets, or say, kissing an hour in an airport parking garage gleefully strapped with excite and eagerness. Maybe I was just alone. Out of every postcard that I ever sent, giant quaffs of pink sugar, a clutch of headless penguins, the Newport Coast tide, that I could never be your prize and climb out to escape with you from your pain.

Laurel Street. the beginning of a magic chant. Letter B, for best, great for the pride. Home of the native Chicago lions. Two years of secrets and we moved in just underneath the last sigh of worry. Surrounded by banks. Red-lettered banks, banks with trapezoidal vaults, banks with free drip coffee and lollies, banks with no lines but everybody's money; bank at the corner with the chimney from the world war, the one mom's dad came back and went to the basement to put his money in a copper box in the trapezoidal vault, a bank of the copper boxes. Freed from all the unions of our caretakers this was our first chance for flight- or free fall. One trip to the stone streets of the far East, and one weekend to see the vineyards during the off season in Napa. Then we lived in a stilted house on a steep hill surrounded by bare fruited palms; the deck we agreed that you wanted. The home that I needed you to have. Above my chair I wrapped black electric-tape to all the windows; no stray Cessna banner would lay an unwanted word on my eyes. We slapped ourselves to the California King and tuned out for a day and a half to The Smiths. In your walk-in you stripped off the robin's egg wallpaper and hung up your Dior, your cold feet trying on every **** pair you had while I sipped guava nectar in my other room chrysalis- eventually I bribed you away with my sticky bun. Two nights passed before you let me sit you in the Jaguar, I wanted to go to the landing at Half Moon Bay. We danced and waded in the high tide. Then you collected smoothed sea glass while I buried myself in Hughes trying to find the meaning of striding at the beach. You were in such a paralysis of anxious dizziness I barely understood. I wrapped you up with great giant arms, the arms that let us win the war, that brought me to you, the arms I found you with, and mixed me with you. And your lips lept at mine, you clang to me for life, for my life inside you, and enveloped my face in your hands, nursing you back to life with my breaths. For heaps of existence- anything to feel that awesome aliveness between us. Your heavy black heart turning hot white coal inside my arms. I made myself the popular Boeing engines, throttled my legs upwards, though slightly unbalanced, I shot us up, towards the nimbus in the sky. Then I watched you reassemble your loose parts, your parents, the nut-house, high school weighed your legs down. You were twenty one hands of horse, working so hard, shaking your new foal feet sturdy. When krrrbaang, our albumineous hare was swallowed up by dark and bursting storm thunder. It startled you, but also me. I saw how your swirls and your sea glass, your heavy gasping lever for pulling in love was struck out of you in one bang of thunderous sound. What clanging hell was this!

We escaped to our tiny two door, but once inside it was our fearsome lair, that place of us safe from thunder or lightning, hephalumps and woozels. The sky melted its tepid Summer day beneath, through all of its pillars of thunder and fistfuls of electricity. It lasted from Bay to Belmont, up the steps and until we were safe in our king bed. Each of us wrestled our wet clothes off our cooled hides, and fought for our share of the pull cover. Impaling each other, we collided until we found the perfect place of entwinement; quietly affirming with each other that we would never leave the mattress again. Dream maimed and anxious you only lasted so long supine.

The laundry. The kitchen dishes, our wet sheets, they all haunted you. A crisp agony befell you half of every day, daily afresh. Every morning a new trail of broken glass to carry you over, fear hung to your ears, dripped from your eyes and the limped down your nose. Weeks and weeks of you trying to convince us that you were always the poison. Like a ranting katydid sipping dark matter through a scotch glass you tried at every thing to quell your ticking nerves. But you continued to spin, like a mad sparrow always falling on itself in the sky. I tried every day to gather you up, but eventually you tore off your wings. And what good was I, I only made good of our arms, climbing up and down, bringing flesh flowers to nourish the nest, through the branches. What a waste I was! What did our rain dancing tide-bearing sea searches leave us with? Happiness for me, always. It sat staring at you through your window like a vagrant black dove, a crow, a penguin.---- I laid down beside you. I trembled over in my head, why you eventually sealed your veins. It puzzled me to my core. I wandered through many cities and sat through many lectures with my head bowed. Once I was two blocks from peeling back your mahogany box and screaming at you; but too close the tears obscured my sight from finding my way. If I had had to face our scenario again, to sit in that vanishing supernatural faded light that emanated from us, what I could come up with, all that I could make out, was you, there was and will always be you.

The cattle commove by
Threading branch
Landing rockets in the blue colleseum
Where black and blue crimes make
For horticultural violent acts of
Skin and rage and anger. Names of other

Gods blasphemed in the night.

human mouths have wept
before the hour, crowding gazers in the streets

news of creation

streaming red blue green
metres undoing the rite of bliss

until yesterday today had been the same

peach skin worn to a sinister shrill
while sound makes the meadow the people hear

and some were unkempt
new tidy purplish stones
new dust collecting time

not all their faces were built for fright

I'm afraid, tearing from my elbows slung across my brow. You will never hear this song, whose fortuitous rhythm drapes me in its steps; where the drums and the melody beat inside my chest. Each and every day, every wakened hour, even through the night, when asleep I think about her, and between the weeks, on the top of every year, I still think about the reason I left and went to college. Chicago overthrows me, and everyone I know keeps 12 steps from where I go, sees me dressed in blackened clothes, but I'm over in a moment, except when I am stolid, or kept in twilight's throes from a choice I haven't chosen.

Here I am, but- I'm not moving. Each hour awake is a reason to stop going. I am weeping, you can't see, every lover I have had has left me be.

The silence tears me- opens my chest, even my own hands threaten the way in which I live. If I were music, I'd be our song, the lyrics build a place for a home where I belong.

San Francisco finds me out, California picks on me, every person that I know, pretends they don't know me. I'm awake when you're asleep. I'm the point in which you drag, you're the effort that I make, for the best I'll never have.

15 miles could be 5,000. Your pleasure could be my poison. I can't leave what I don't have, and I can't grieve although I'm sad. I write three letters unsigned and sent, "Dear You, I miss you, please come back." I wait for phone calls that don't come, I hear the rings that don't happen. I talk to ears that don't hear me, and wait for the silence the hours bring.

I use pronouns that give names envy, and keep the letters that you had sent me. I am happier but you can't see, "Dear You, I miss you, please come back to me."

There's no news of this spider
But it's poison rings this dinner bell.
Inside the crater of a dimple
Where the temple inside your collarbone
Holds fresh and newish gods.

While the supper tongues are out
It's best to eat the living before the dead are all died out.
This isn't a vampire factory w/ere running after all,
It's the hot new comas of afternoon laboratory parties,
synchronized swimming in a bedroom on top of the covers
but under the softest comforter. She swims sweet laps to the strokes
Of every keystroke and every vowel undone, and every finger unglued.

4:11:11- 12:38p.m.  Writing yourself around.  Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs.  Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it.  Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns.  You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered.  The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment.  or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses.  Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon.  Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its.  So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

Some say that I'm wielding the powers,
That I believe in a wood stick I found on the ground, I make magic.
Attractive or not it's all that I got, barely holds me together, with all of my might I'm not sure I can still hold on when the sun goes home for the night, will I wake up and lose my mind or go back to the nightmares I've been trying to let go for so long I can hear my own voice in the back of my head like the shadows I wear across my back, it's sacred but I wouldn't lie about it now, could it be the time, can you say it's the time, I'd move my hand but then I'd start to speak, the kinds of things I've been keeping you from, not because you're dumb I just want to ignore me for a few minutes longer, you're much better off with only my good half, I'd try to unwind within your eyesight but I'm sure I would crumble into the dust. You are the magic, I'm just a kind of catastrophe carrying this story about a boy and the girl who drew star maps on her arms, like wings made to uplift him until they could both fly away, yesterday she put a stone on top of his grave

This is the hour meanness bears
Girls marble eyes fatigued by sun-filled play on Summer sunny days.

Black angel of mine, meander near my truth; corral words interchanged between the mortal whims we buried near the sand and stone murals the coastline and ravines overthrew.

Many orchids, chocolate brushing a with death'careless needles- adapted since.
Now I follow you, the boldness of your emerald crown, and the swueakiness amidst your new Keens and their patter on the crackly ground.

A cute exists to cease your pain
It takes the somber in your ails
Then slivers off pieces of your bones.

The downside is you **** all day
Your fury enrages you more.
The three-step antibiotic treatment
Made the sick in you sicker-

Treats meant to wander freely Now we've been in this trapped plainness in trapped family nowhere-land; until so miserable, melancholy, and disappointed

Anger turns to shouting.

it drips from lips too hot to touch
the sound remains but the words have left
his eye's sweat their egg yellow cries
the water sways while the lyrics go

hair that is an explosion
into her blue puddly stare
all that is gravity keeps it there

At first when it happens

     it's like a spell, I cast it, it moves me, and I use it.
To the youth with it. Some hollow-gutted frogs' yolks and thrice its weight in pigeon carcass and fly.
Gruesome fruit loosies.

Then somehow the trance begins, the anecdotal watch stopes moving, to the hedge-burn up to the meadow go the witnesses, moving under the guile of fresh addiction. Wicked words, fiery,

a conflagration.

Burning us up. Two in two out.  And just as they get it right, the moon hollows itself out, the sky undergoes a change, a nuance splits open the gut of the world and comes indifference, apathy,

anxiety.

A poem comes.
     It crashes down over my head like an arrow-carved apple, from the Natives. Bending me on my side, my flat side, where I have lived one-hundred years on my side, my left leg nuzzled in between you and the blankets we bought at the thrift store on 26th and Valencia. And it worries me, now that they shift from top-floor to basement in some corner of the Salvation Army. No one ones that magic. They touch the bruised knots of its cotton fibers, and for what-

a throw blanket in a common room.

My heart is bestowed again.
Returning to the room I see her nestled
In a heap of a  super soft blanket,
The burrowed belle in an ethereal dressing.

I would never sneak or speak or break
This gentle and harmonious blessing of
Beauty and majesty so bountiful. The amour
Wand has blessed us both, I only wonder if
We both receive the spoils of the miserly.

Miserable no more. My lips swept by sunflower-colored
Gold canvas blonde hair strands, wet with shower water
From a departure excited by her own palpitations.

My  only nightmare is sweetness. There can be no sign of
Hallmark gestures. No buzz of cuteness or cleverness.
I may only sew that which unfolds as a stain. As someone special
She must never suspect nonsense. I may never relay it. And still Between everything that has happened between us.

She only needs three moments to be soundlessly asleep.
Me I may weep but she keeps in the alluvial grave of
Sleep I continue to induce for her, tracing my finger around your
Earlobe. My pinky swipes the cool white

I'm in Space, the new mute planets I'm praying my feet will make their home. Inside a platitude of evolution. Where are the real breathers? A vocabulary doesn't make expert writers of trite and frequently used dactyls. Words and artificial sweeteners precede and postpone the myriad attributes of this season's abundant human inequality month.

Your dry shampoo rocks my world and my nostrils love it. Dawn's Spring birds are quickly disappointed by the inconsistencies of the mediocre business model. Lies and dishonor admidst affluent and educated consumerism. As if ugly was a viable reason to lead a resistance against conformist gestapo tactics of suburban play soldiers.

4:09am with Lemonade & Judy. Still w/o honesty or compassionate understanding. The squash and zucchini are up too early and our Chialet specifications may or may not be included in the rates for opening up the Walgreens mouth much too early. Dishonesty is far more expensive than blood letting prose length to carry the diseases out qually

Drink dead moths darling, in smushy twilight. There's its grave in our closet against the milky Red sky. Dreams of a young man in a splinter of Night, submits his shadows for reasons, some Sell their dues for new lives. Incredible yawns Child- is your hero a leaf or the tree? Is it a Haunting First Nation People omitted by Sulking owls for breezes. Yore the mountains Can't long now, helter skelter near or afar, some Sell their poisons, others chisel their bark. And the hide is entrenched now, it's nearly six in the dawn, where the white women wake to the Weeping hearts read in palms. If the desert Should call us, back to roots that won't grow, Take your devils and walk with me in a plastic Flower grove. Wolves and a memory, calls for Many too late, sorrow switches the time stamp Where forever we played, and tonight no one Watches, tonight we the buffalo cry, and some Chase silver-dollars for the truth in their time. In their time, in their time. Someone far far away. Lest our treasures grow weary, as we forget how we played, some sunny day. Some winter day, far far away. Farther and farther from the things we once slayed.

May Is A *******

To people. Two people, imprisoned by interpretation, mistaken by mindfulness, truth hurts the most when love lying beside oneself doles empty shoulder pockets to ache and left-arm wells where women once laid play on the tips of eyes that only past photographs and dreams could doctor up.  

Old loves linger long. Old lovers' eyes ensconced amidst the taciturn untrammeled tracks of 8-track playing old memories in MP3 flash-backs like LSD astral visions from the mind dancing to eyelash trances over systematic dancers antics. Indubitably confusing youth with the modern mood antics to tear apart the current heart's sanguine and evolving romance.

Sleepless nights on stiff bed-boards, imaginary phone calls with devilish and venomous lost bottles with the notes that never arrived, but were clearly post-marked, in my collection of Rolex-Ex's I collect such humanity in an array of unorganized post-cards. But still the lack of sleep confuses me, until the immense sentiment of my lover's hand sparks my mind to drift back into a state where science and romance claim such verses in this dream dictionary to be dog-eared, glowing goose-pimples, and tingling flesh right before sleeping, like if Tristen managed to meet Juliet and Isolde met Romeo during recess and each revered the other's love card.

I'm still quaffing spit, and I don't know if I'll ever be sick of it. The seashore throws its waves, while the whales, sea lions, and hammerheads catch me off guard. Whet by my naive, following peanut-butter chocolate-coated M&Ms to where E.T.'s spaceship catches me falling from the plateau where I left Earth, traveling downwards, I let the rocks do the talking, and several of my best in friendships drown or be discarded.

To people, who irascibly need for one another, swoon and swallow each other, and cannot for a moment keep themselves apart. Who write daily, and stare quietly kissing one another constantly while the nearby mountains grow taller. And while one wakes up, the other wants so much to spend every moment together so much so he proposed to her, and vows are only words to a love that spines communicate not in speech but in neural-transmitted powers.

There are still letters. Those crowns for the kingdoms whose royalty never fully walked away. There are the kings and queens, that the servants sing to such sleeping beauties bright mornings, mid-afternoons, and until the ends collecting between them every day. Stars. Hours. Minutes and the minutia of dust-covered wooden dinosaurs deserving of better moons, suns, and oceans we'd cross together, and maybe memories are just memories and not today's unmistakeable love, that's here right now, that somehow I found, and who found that we should traverse this Earth forever.

Pain is something father's and wives truly understand. So long as I honestly share every scrap of brutal pride and ego trapped in my brain's collective consciousness, I won't have to sleep in my own empty arms, or in the spoils of hearts that confused hearts and minds, between a walk in the ocean as opposed to becoming the seashore, swallowing up the Pacific Ocean one miserable gulp at a time.

Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium. Pick a pepper. Cow Palace. Moth ***** and mouth *****. Tea bags and sore throats. Presumptuous candid story-telling anomalies, trite masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling. Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic. Sand gathers boulders. Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine and aesthete. Curious. Before clause. The story god. The kick to the Achilles and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze. Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood. Wears gloves. Has colds. Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies. Limps lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It makes meals and carries them through broken towns, over smokey ridges, helping out and just- helping.

The line wakes it. One traffic light. Three thousand three hundred lakes. Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest. Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog. Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless. Hours go by. Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over. The bejeweled mid-rim equator providence. King and queen. Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing? The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.

No one eats, anymore. The pleasure is moved. The happy have landed. The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner. All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air. Something cumin in the water. I love in French. In English. In Germanic. I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows. The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows. I run around and move back. I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A neige built snow home. An igloo. A tale of curiosity, of interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo. We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing? Makes the men to swine, to amuse muses. To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays but the women never come with the water.-

I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it. I smell you on socks. On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. The none-ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawaling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau, a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's nobody home. And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you. And I seam you, to me. I seam you to me.

The talisman bleeds. In the crevasse, he smokes rock. She inhales the stone. Freedom lies in the snow, tremendous blinding, in careful flight, she cannot hold the breaking of night, lifting higher and higher until her wings begin to explode. Some drinks take to fight, some beings take to highs, I advised her to maintain her flight- lilting on the dragonian see-saw ride. Freedom lies in the snow, dreams are blinding, in careful flight, she cannot hold the breaking of night, lifting higher and higher until her wings begin to explode. Freaks, grim, and zombies cry, while their echoes shade in the past of their lives. The freeze comes in quick, the ice drops its face, the claws and the white are more frightening in light.

He plays his game
He makes his cough
The girls go through his pockets fast.
He sees in blight.
He seeks his fire.
In nocturna, isles reveal their tries.

4:11:11- 12:38p.m.  Writing yourself around.  Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs.  Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it.  Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns.  You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered.  The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment.  or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses.  Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon.  Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its.  So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

Regulated heavy-petting, severed metal jukeboxes of the new platoon. Orations in the streets, on their knees; women hanging from street lamps, their shoestrings dismantled, clothing sifted through for every karat of worth, then the shoes stuffed on- bare naked bodies and tangerine blossoms came through the Eastern air. One of them coughed something, not in English. Each of them riddled through with decade-old grins, as if from a childhood game of cops and bandits.

Every part of my trust in her body, a knot made of plastic in a reel of film strung from her shoulders. A gunshot emptied her stomach, its bang echoed cerise colored paint.

your words fortify the strings that tie my heart together
and with your regular field dressings, your mindful dactyls
pruning the excess fat from my anguished droopy eye; perhaps
it is tomorrow that is young and I will never know your fingers
on my face or your face upon my fingers. These are the gelid slopes
where the tern's claw decides our fate. Woman's Fugue emblazoned upon
my sudorific brow and overtly outstretched limbs. Every day is heavier than the last, and the latter brings unfaithfulness between the

Every day I wake up searching for the sound of your smile, in a
Photograph my fingers ran through your hair, golden rays of sunlight on
Pebbles each its own drop of sand, shone to these eyes in radiant night.
There was a time I remembered how to talk to you. I just can't get there anymore. I cross the street, use the cheat sheets, the pictures, the prose, and even an event like today doesn't hold a flame to the brightness transcending our time shared at all.

Crawling out onto the porch, I see a set of doors
Their colors are so cool, but keep my journey on its way.
I make my knees into hands and I see myself up onto my feet.
There isn't even a mirror or reflection, something that could make easier
For me to see her the way I see her when I see her.

I take the taste. I drink the ***.
I swallow all the spit from off her tongue.
We sleep in threes, We count in fourths.
Play rock 'n roll and scream in our sleep.

Sometimes I felt like I was alive, until she turned the loudness up on me.
Now I travel in high fidelity with certain definition.
My dreams are just the parts of my day.

I knew someone would come for me
While I laid awake in my fifteen year old bedroom at night.
She came to me, and now I'm making sure not to leave her.
I want to invent colors and languauges to make her world ours.

There's a place I have been
But it's a puzzle you see,
Nothing ornery and nothing certainly so.
The trouble ensues amidst the crackling air, It Inherits an anxiety that was born from youth.
Characters place a charge to pass between each Dimension unveiled in the quandaries exposed By each curious want. In wanness its decided, That each should mercifully idle, and pause Before it yields the gain. And an ampule of light Is pronounced by the right to take up pizza in The order of minds

I want to make room inside me for you
A piano solo misses you softly
No stranger could closely close unto
It's a strain of the fortune never closing never folding. Events unfold me, a hostel membership where I can never go. A brief reminder from that stranger to never leave my house in just a robe.

I want to make a space inside you,
A place for me and all the things that never grow. My cement stains the grace within you, then falls against your legs beside that home you've never known. Instead of pain my paint is thinning, while parents shake their heads while you've spent so many years alone.

Hold my face like the beginning. A devil doll, white skin, blue eyes and little legs and quiet moans. On a park bench where we went living, no words, no places hands would never go. Inside the rehab where I found you, the splinters and the quill we wrote each other letters late into the night. Until the space inside us melted, I snuck you out, I hid you in my scars and wrote you into bedroom. Bestowing me your skin and miranda, your record player gave plus ones for parties we never threw. My odometer met the sidewalk's end, my blackened threads. Where I woke alone in my robe.

I want to save the space inside us.
I want to keep the room where we used to often go.
And if I could keep you,
I'd keep my mouth shut instead of breaking up our home.
Little death spread onto silence, the ails of *** and flesh, where hands and eyes could lull. I've lit a million little matches, I've set a dozen fires to guide me, but everywhere it seems there's nothing left to glow.

Laurel Street. the beginning of a magic chant. Letter B, for best, great for the pride. Home of the native Chicago lions. Two years of secrets and we moved in just underneath the last sigh of worry. Surrounded by banks. Red-lettered banks, banks with trapezoidal vaults, banks with free drip coffee and lollies, banks with no lines but everybody's money; bank at the corner with the chimney from the world war, the one mom's dad came back and went to the basement to put his money in a copper box in the trapezoidal vault, a bank of the copper boxes. Freed from all the unions of our caretakers this was our first chance for flight- or free fall. One trip to the stone streets of the far East, and one weekend to see the vineyards during the off season in Napa. Then we lived in a stilted house on a steep hill surrounded by bare fruited palms; the deck we agreed that you wanted. The home that I needed you to have. Above my chair I wrapped black electric-tape to all the windows; no stray Cessna banner would lay an unwanted word on my eyes. We slapped ourselves to the California King and tuned out for a day and a half to The Smiths. In your walk-in you stripped off the robin's egg wallpaper and hung up your Dior, your cold feet trying on every **** pair you had while I sipped guava nectar in my other room chrysalis- eventually I bribed you away with my sticky bun. Two nights passed before you let me sit you in the Jaguar, I wanted to go to the landing at Half Moon Bay. We danced and waded in the high tide. Then you collected smoothed sea glass while I buried myself in Hughes trying to find the meaning of striding at the beach. You were in such a paralysis of anxious dizziness I barely understood. I wrapped you up with great giant arms, the arms that let us win the war, that brought me to you, the arms I found you with, and mixed me with you. And your lips lept at mine, you clang to me for life, for my life inside you, and enveloped my face in your hands, nursing you back to life with my breaths. For heaps of existence- anything to feel that awesome aliveness between us. Your heavy black heart turning hot white coal inside my arms. I made myself the popular Boeing engines, throttled my legs upwards, though slightly unbalanced, I shot us up, towards the nimbus in the sky. Then I watched you reassemble your loose parts, your parents, the nut-house, high school weighed your legs down. You were twenty one hands of horse, working so hard, shaking your new foal feet sturdy. When krrrbaang, our albumineous hare was swallowed up by dark and bursting storm thunder. It startled you, but also me. I saw how your swirls and your sea glass, your heavy gasping lever for pulling in love was struck out of you in one bang of thunderous sound. What clanging hell was this!

We escaped to our tiny two door, but once inside it was our fearsome lair, that place of us safe from thunder or lightning, hephalumps and woozels. The sky melted its tepid Summer day beneath, through all of its pillars of thunder and fistfuls of electricity. It lasted from Bay to Belmont, up the steps and until we were safe in our king bed. Each of us wrestled our wet clothes off our cooled hides, and fought for our share of the pull cover. Impaling each other, we collided until we found the perfect place of entwinement; quietly affirming with each other that we would never leave the mattress again. Dream maimed and anxious you only lasted so long supine.

The laundry. The kitchen dishes, our wet sheets, they all haunted you. A crisp agony befell you half of every day, daily afresh. Every morning a new trail of broken glass to carry you over, fear hung to your ears, dripped from your eyes and the limped down your nose. Weeks and weeks of you trying to convince us that you were always the poison. Like a ranting katydid sipping dark matter through a scotch glass you tried at every thing to quell your ticking nerves. But you continued to spin, like a mad sparrow always falling on itself in the sky. I tried every day to gather you up, but eventually you tore off your wings. And what good was I, I only made good of our arms, climbing up and down, bringing flesh flowers to nourish the nest, through the branches. What a waste I was! What did our rain dancing tide-bearing sea searches leave us with? Happiness for me, always. It sat staring at you through your window like a vagrant black dove, a crow, a penguin.---- I laid down beside you. I trembled over in my head, why you eventually sealed your veins. It puzzled me to my core. I wandered through many cities and sat through many lectures with my head bowed. Once I was two blocks from peeling back your mahogany box and screaming at you; but too close the tears obscured my sight from finding my way. If I had had to face our scenario again, to sit in that vanishing supernatural faded light that emanated from us, what I could come up with, all that I could make out, was you, there was and will always be you.

your skin. the tapestry of your body. that guiding force between us, the forces. Our interdigitated hands, our sudorous hands, our midnight hands, and the hands of the hallway. Our amatory tryst, left palm on your cheek, right palm on your cheek- my lips wrapped around your forehead, coming up to the top of your hair-line. Deep, dark brown hair, thick locks of brunette strands. Yesterday, the perfervid and igneous morning hours spent drinking from your hot caldera. And I kowtowed my forehead against your pale soft skin, kissing circles around your naval, and reaching with extreme delicacy the nibs of my fingers up the sides of your rib cage, carefully avoiding your *******. When I came to your shoulders, I filled my hands with them and pulled us closer towards each other. I turned my head to face you and you strained to raise your head from the bed, your supine state, our sprawled bodies turned to neatly intertwine our appendages, to make a ball of skins. You reached forward to hold my cheeks in your hands, and bring the edges of your hands alongside the inches of my ears to bring me down on top of your lips, where you pursed them and sang to me, softly, your voice barely above a whisper, talking into my ear.

The man is wide, heavy like the Scottish curls his family grand fathered in some two hundred years ago before he was dedicated by the reinactment society to perform is inadequacies towards his peers on something comparable to a band stand, Something along the veins of a moon slide where artist pots sing songs and non-smoker' choke on his heat.

You’re in my guts
Pictures and all
Until I rush to the toile
And adhere your redolence
To my nose

Outside I’m in another state
Another time another place
My fingers sampling your abs
Your lips, the cool air outside
The Jaguar. The way your father spoke
To me. Until, until, until.
You tease me back to sleep. Please

Like a stranger in is gloom, reveals the blood from his knuckles,
And the runnel filled of sludge, covers the sides of its bucket,

The maggot carnival maps out the lines of the fox
With its skeleton unhooked it creaks like an antique grandfather's clock.

Whistling Old Mother Goose, with lintels bare like Mother Hubbard,
Kept quite neatly to herself to hide away her brimming cupboards,

And a risky little boy disobeys his father's orders,
To take a chancy feral ride on the feet of its horses.

For every penny that you throw there is a wish to be on order,
But when it comes you'll never know, since coincidences are difficult to uncover,

Each speck of light from the every bird that takes in flight,
Holds the wings with its might, crossing rivers in the night.

For every marten that touts its prize,
A fledgling mother has tearful eyes,

But to a supper full of crickets,
Isn't half as good as gizzards,

A great supplement you'll know is the faith you uncover,
To the God's that heaven sews, will keep you warmer than any other.

While a plane is in flight you must never pipe or smoke,
Each passenger aboard knows, that every instrument has a fragile note.

So if it's ignorance you hold, please find a different mother and father,
Because in our home you'll know, we strictly keep to order.

But one mistake isn't so bad, as a string of bad behavior,
And it shouldn't be so hard to believe, when you see the bruises on our neighbors.

at first when we meet, I am only a tiny closet.
all the clothes I wear I made myself, they are dog-eared
but have finger pockets hidden everywhere.
I hide under an enormous hood, inside an elephant's trunk,
Sharp silver-splinters drag behind me. Gigantic black boot feet
that sway across twice the size of my stride.

Beautiful angel-shaped woman-being.
I hustle your form and posture, crossing your T's and blinking my eyes,  I stir and twist, anxiously wriggling out   and passion, your sleep performs prolific dreams arousing large smiles upon your face. I free climb up your chin, intervals I pause and pause again, nestling  in the bow of your dimple, the arc of your lip. You rocket me into erupting euphoric bliss- our skin suits harmonizing outside of our heavy breaths and deeply entransive pantomime. I fly from a classroom naked to rescue you from Grecian alligators barking like feral dogs pushing you into the white picket fence you are still afraid of into your twenties.

you are my sixth star above mourning, right on until neverland. For better or for worse, we team the enigmas of life's endless bounties in erupting landscape, while I have only begun to tame the teeming populations of the Middle West.

every turn produces an inquisitive moan, except it is difficult to breathe as you are able at eighteen thousand feet. I am further and perfervidly mesmerized.

Well they talk about the treatise,
They talk about the pigs from Lamar, they keep
Their furnace raw and kids on the move. Some wreak their havoc in swords, others burn their denim and gold. They've got their names in stone, and the sour-**** blues. Wrapped up in methodical and squared from an irregular obtuse. It helps sometimes to keep the furnace alive, the girl's red, raw, and juicy too. The night can keep the fury alive, but it pays to keep your sword sharpened too.

draft

This conversation can’t come fast enough, This past I’m needing for, can’t come, can’t know how to please me, my needs for you hurt me badly. The truth is I can’t live without you, and I keep going forward. My drawers are full, our ages come fast, chasing down the dreams we’ve both had. I am mad and about you. Won’t you trust this love I’ve shown you. I watch your feet walk up the dashboard. My nellypot goddess of highway photographs. Summers’ time and heated romance, you can cool off with the drinks I’ve been keeping in my knapsack.

Just tell me where you are
Just tell me girl where you’ve been going
I can feel the Earth as it’s pulled apart,
I can hear each strike at the world,
While the waves crash over me.
No one brave enough to do their part,
Come walk with me
Let us go to the park.
There’s this gift for your lips to heal,
Taking words to the books that could’ve brought you to feel, just a pinch will reveal your road, philanthropic donations requested from that ghost on the phone
But as much as I **** you in,
I cannot **** your ships back to me again
Watch as I start to swim
Watch while the tides throw me out to sea again
I’ve swallowed the oceans and
I drowned on the land
Could it be that I’m falling
Faster than I can stand
Could it be that the facts don’t fly
But I’m listening to the words that you’ve shared. I listen with the focus knowing you’ve listened to the same words we have. Such as the balm that goes on your lips, I’ve used it myself on our lips, well, are we now closer than five degrees of separation. Will it be? Will you swim with me?

If you put the blocks on the chains and the chains on your legs, I would box up myself and jump over the edge. If you took yourself to the hellhounds den, I’d bite the paw of the black dog that fed me and then do it again.

The truth is, I can’t believe my life’s needs are greedy. The truth is you know my fingers are living, say it’s so. Why won’t you collect your headaches and hangovers, then call your bluff and reach me by phone. I admit my passwords. I admit my wrongs but I know that doesn’t make me right. I give you my stories and dreams, my secrets, but the more I see you look away the more it makes me want to greet you and see your face in the light. The mourning that claimed both of us, pushes both of us to see ourselves tonight. I can be the story that borrows from tomorrow, but only if you let yourself be the goal between the both of us- until tomorrow we make haste, trying harder every moment, if only, in order to be together past the morning in order to lick each other’s dreams, and hemorrhage every demon that we used to fight.

It was wishing. I was longing. For tomorrow, forward arcing, you come to me in darkness. You came to be the heartache, of a love I’m trying to hold. Everybody knows that knowing love doesn’t mean it can be owned.

To break of sin I will swim through darkest nights. Two abreast we’ll feign our plights, and break our bodies on the streams, in vain attempts to love freely.

Body

glue n you
floods that water surmise
sheridan road isotope electro luxury
might we drink where homeless our
lives wore down the caked architecture
limits hold on city doors

in every position
redness n poison roses
photography biographies in hidden drawers, like your voice
wherever you have been that looking no treasure is there to spectate
no mountain is there
to mark explanations or x's

how so many of these skins and figures
how so many of these dances and shadow moon-like people in melancholic dismay, all overtake the massive sounds that eyes with intent earnestly scour the Earth through Time for even a sight at one decibel, one catalogue to read thoroughly with the membranes of fingertips once more,
again

They don't mean to be the knot versus the rock. But it's horrid how little minute misheard words diminished, between different lines of those similarly sordid patterns, these are the patters people drink towards in order to find their rock n roll.

4:11:11- 12:38p.m.  Writing yourself around.  Claim ticket for many fissuring endings, weather beats and other written tumors in subways, like French films, and also has decadence- bright white blinding air falls and standard auto-motifs.  Crushes like I built the car not only planned on packing it.  Not just filled the trunk with four boxes and a bag of clothes but made myself responsible on the other end of the message, you will return again to the rotations of your childhood and the laughing will seem fresh and abundant as never before.I claim Sheridan Road and all of its turns.  You can take back the night, I have no use for things I can't keep my eyes on, these quality treasures and true folds in letters, signed, sealed, surrendered.  The most peculiar of the mix, wakes of the standard in residual unfamiliar outcomes of even the subdued yet idle symbolic thorns and irregular poisons that seem manageable for a moment.  or seven.Lesser thans and greater chaoses.  Long whiles in engagements and other battle scars hidden by the clock in the moon.  Day trips to yesterday and 4:00p.m. you call its.  So for your heaven and these nouns, be it the wire of this breath to slay sickness from the weeds and list the ups against an itinerary finalized with, "produce."

the world is a world it is a word and it spins spinning, spinning, spinning, around and around, and this is the world and it spins, spinning around and around and we are here to see it, to see it and watch it spinning spinning around, here we are watching the spinning, the world, it goes around and around and around, spinning

Let me touch your skin, your skin your skin, your skin is so white, the whitest I have ever seen the whitest I have ever seen, white like the snow in the mountains, the mountain snow, so white, so clear, so snowy white like in the mountains, and I want to touch it, I want to touch it, let me touch it. You are like a *****, your skin is filthy and you are disgusting, so disgusting, let me touch you.

How I love your hair, your hair is amazing, it is so long, it is so incredible and so amazing and beautiful, it is like great big rounds of silk and satin in a great round, let me touch your hair, let me touch your hair, let me put my nose to it, let me put my mouth and lips to it, and my face to it, I want to breathe the same heavy awesome air that you breathe, I want to taste the same air that you have found. Your hair is like an old carpet with stains, let me touch it.

This is the world, here we are, watching it, we watch it, we watch it spinning, it spins around and around, and it will go forever, it or we or it will go around and around and around and around, spinning, and we will be here to watch it, spinning, spinning, spinning, around. You are like the end to the day that lasted forever and forever, never ending, but now it is ending, and the day was never ending, but no more. And the earth will spin around and around.

this goes out to all little sisters, big, little or tall, small too. She crunches ice cubes in her mouth, wondering if it's bad for her teeth, she bought another ice cube tray just to get more retreat from underneath the heavy petting that's only fifteen years past early bed wetting, it seems, oh my sister, don't give up so easily. Boys are just...so 1 out of 10 decently pleasing. I can only name two or three that practice chivalry in a blizzard, suffering for you quietly, waking up early to turn the water on so it's hot when you wake up early to go to work and you'll be showering. Don't let the things he buys full or fuel you, too much money means he'll be expecting things from you that you work harder for yourself.

If I could write the perfect letter that could set the trend for every boy you'd ever meet, or who'd greet you on the street, I'd probably be better leaving this letter alone. But lonely we, we're not just two he and she, we're you and me, and when he brings you home past the time you set for yourself, speak up and tell him how disappointed you are. You can't let boys set expectations on the things no one else gets for free. You earn being trustworthy, your curves are not just a place for his hands to go, make him sit on his hands and watch you flip your hair into curls without mentioning how physically beautiful you are. Your beauty starts with the passion you take with you to the ungrateful students you teach day in day out that you never tell them how much you're disappointed, it carries itself around the brown paper lunch you bring so you can save $7 dollars a day to take a trip to California like you've been promising yourself you'll take since before our family was bringing us back and forth to the OC. I bequeath you your sheath, now use it wisely.

Sister remember that boys will say anything and everything when they want to be physical, but nothing they say is emotional. Don't let anyone convince you to do something you wouldn't even do to yourself, don't let yourself be treated any less than what your fantasy brings your eyes to sleep like when you were too young to count and I sang you to sleep with the numbered keep of sheep.

Remember it's better to complain about not having the boy of your dreams, than regretting you let the wrong boy into your jeans. Beautiful is the way you were born, and it's easy to point out what's obvious, so invest in a boy that's interested in more than whether you keep piercings under your clothes, or whether you let your sexuality be too undercover that you can't even e

How can we tell if anyone is at home?

I wish you had come in a box, I'd open you now
A tin can would be too small unless we were playing dares.

I don't accept these terms. We could have been arrested together
And then we'd have another piece of paper with our names on it to enjoy.

The letters I've been sending you are shorter.
I prefer when our names are closer to each other.

That copper lithograph you made and the limited edition prints,
Those are still so ******* rad.

You left that white leather bag with the gold hardware at our apartment,
Iridescent purple crochet needles, what appears to be the beginning of

An autobiography you must be putting together. I'd be lying if I said I washed and folded your clothes. I only folded them.

How long will someone's natural perfume stay on clothes?

I don't delete some period's.
Sometime's the worst punctuation is the kind that stays forever.

I miss you more than the addiction to painkillers I kept up until
Two months ago. I've been making the necessary upgrades.

They don't have a word for how much you mean to me.
A monogamous flightless bird that serves at the pleasure of its mate

Was the closest I came to showing you not only that I'd carry you
So you didn't have to walk over the scalding lava, but that

These limbs are fitted for your form. My legs will never grow weak.
Beautiful extraordinary things adults do with their mouths

For hours and hours and hours if they like.
After lips move and speaking does not require voices, whispers, or tells.

Waking up with my arms wrapped around your leg, My head laid
In the valley of your belly button.

Everything great of me was incubated with your body in our time.
It seems we shucked everything good from your tiny body

Until you lied yourself into believing you weren't worthy of such
Immense happiness and pleasure. You have not put me away.

Your lies were lies, if only to reinforce cognitive distortions.
Being brilliant and beautiful is the curse we agreed.

This venom is three years young and flying first class, one way, with four Checked bags, rocking forward to urge time forward.

What will bring the smiling back?

The temple mounds and eyelids sewn into the lines where lips
Greeted the fantastic strands of gleaming threads in your birth crown.

I have pictures of our pictures.
I have shoes for my shoes, and their tongues are hanging out.

We introduced each other to cool. I introduced you to your body
And for three years we ****** six times a day at least.

I wear your California necklace and studded leather cuff always.
Still nothing and no one could ever come between.

Heavy flow, blood letting, and mainstream apostrophes, and
Still we are bending time and making up gravity as we go along.

We became the Villains we hoped we'd become,
But the monster that is ripe on my skin is glowing.

This is the fight I'm not going to let up on, I will not sit down until your Cappuccino with agave and steamed milk is ready for you in bed.

You wait on me like a polaroid whose shadow looks to be a ghost
But ends in contrast and a lack of exposure.

I drank the poison too and left enough for you to use.

k=k

They will bury me in the red robe don't you know it.

It was your red robe for smoking
cigarettes

                                                                                                     on the stone patio,

            Saturday mornings                      with Nespresso and milk.

You must be brave when you tell me. That you have put a strange flesh inside you. If you turn your eyes, left to right a barn owl will die. If you move them right to left a child will go hungry. And when you say only the truth, then my dear, my stomach will eat itself alive, and my brain will start forgetting stories right there.

I see a photo one hundred years old of men stalking foxes in the snow and I feel a sudden death. A sour breath from a sour mouth. A dry skin hand covers a very bad dry cough. I am tearing up in the picture of wind and scorn and blue winter skies. It can be so heavy I have to sit. I go to a couch, three extra feet long, for my legs to not be stuck in the groove, or I find a chair with an ottoman. I need to be supine. Twenty nine is no year to wander. The dingos play at night, and you have taken up new flesh. I have everything to say now, and something will happen too. Still I am waiting with my eyes down and my feet up. Still.

your skin. the tapestry of your body. that guiding force between us, the forces. Our interdigitated hands, our sudorous hands, our midnight hands, and the hands of the hallway. Our amatory tryst, left palm on your cheek, right palm on your cheek- my lips wrapped around your forehead, coming up to the top of your hair-line. Deep, dark brown hair, thick locks of brunette strands. Yesterday, the perfervid and igneous morning hours spent drinking from your hot caldera. And I kowtowed my forehead against your pale soft skin, kissing circles around your naval, and reaching with extreme delicacy the nibs of my fingers up the sides of your rib cage, carefully avoiding your *******. When I came to your shoulders, I filled my hands with them and pulled us closer towards each other. I turned my head to face you and you strained to raise your head from the bed, your supine state, our sprawled bodies turned to neatly intertwine our appendages, to make a ball of skins. You reached forward to hold my cheeks in your hands, and bring the edges of your hands alongside the inches of my ears to bring me down on top of your lips, where you pursed them and sang to me, softly, your voice barely above a whisper, talking into my ear.