I bought a new dresser since you propped me again mine.
No longer can I reinvent that day –
it is too high, I would not knock your belongings into a drawer
and fish by strings of saliva just to see you again,
send my body parts to your mailbox so they feel at home.

But I can sit pantyless in an office chair
shooting bad guys via computer cables. They all are bald and
do not voice in my accent, nor yours, we were only
ourselves almost as I am only me without you
though not quite. Somehow we
are two together while I am not more than a half on my own.

When the judge asks,
how many fractions are the reminisces of a person worth?
I pontificate that I shall test them like a hypothesis,
I forget the loss of virginity because naivety never did leave me
though you did, and that is about the same, but not quite.

I have felt no one since I loved you
any sensation
percolates my membrane like juice through a honeycomb
our final moments buoy in the bluebell’s cup –
then I forgot to bite the full moon,
Luna, your mistress for this sixteen hour journey
call her Luna, tell if her craters are similar to my *******.  

I sleep I sleep I sleep
but when I awake I will be forever aroused.
It was that ambivalent phone call, “I miss you and I will
hate you for several seconds if you don’t mind,”
that severed my nerve endings.

Piercing my ear the next week
there was the thought, a novel philosophy, just a tingle
that I was carving out a part of me that still
loved

you. I have felt nothing since, I have
been a statuette like Miss Liberty in the pond:
said she stands just like me, well, what if I got my bow
what if I shot an arrow through
every piece of astronomy you find more worth in than me.

Miss Luna, the Estrellas, even your sol
can feel
me break them but I will not feel any of that from you.

Why does my soul feel hollow?
Why is it difficult to breathe?
Why is it bile that I swallow?
When it's only you I see

I want to fill my soul
With petals of pink and green
And have an aura of gold
Surrounding me, heaven-serene

But your eyes melt like wax
My warm and giving heart
My white flag stands at half-mast
You pull and tear me apart

I'm standing at a crossroads
If I stay, I'll wilt like a rose
Or, I can choose to run far away, down paths and unknown roads
And hope and pray that it all will end in lyrical, elegant prose

After this climactic
Three-way
Mexican stand-off
Once the orchestra
Dies off
And the treasure's dug up
We should probably just
Lay down
Enjoy the sun
Let it scorch the earth
And bake our bare
Finally poncho-free skin
Because all I need to be
Happy
Is the western sky
Burning me
Biting me
A polka dot bikini
Clint Eastwood
And the most delicate six-shooters you've ever seen
By my side

Daisy ***, patchwork dress, lalala
I baked you cherry pie while you chatted a wizard
hope it kept warm in the oven.
Dear, the contents partner our cheeks
a good-natured face, freckled of breadcrumbs at
each of six circadian meals to come by day.

Everything is rosy in this hobbit hole –
flowers, and mouths, and food laugh all in sync.

I reckon when you digest
we shall scamper off to our twin bed.
Lalala I sing, and lalala you sing, raccoons are so
close above the wooden beams
that I know their supper is dandelion stalks.

Tucked in, this is what is christened a perfect fit
your foot the extent of my head
and kissing at my toes, their lady stubble.

(You, the skilled shoemaker
who will not tolerate me hiding in pelt moccasins)

If the moon arises, we do not see:
lalala, mockingbirds sing the garden to sleep
but the vegetation dances
like a dwarf’s beard, though blonde somehow
saturating ginger for a reading nightlight
bellies full of sweet cakes and dinner number four.

You kiss me our Eskimo way, then as halflings
I whisper about the ariel orchard today
(Rosemary, red-cheeks, lalala) afore first breakfast.

Mother Earth has birthed billions of nymphets
knees that flirted with their socks so much it left prints
coquettes gyrating Bubble Yum
         on digits, her sunglasses’ stems,  a split end.

Mother Earth gave us nymphs so
bodies would not be loamless either, so we can be as
fertile as gorges far from any lofted stone wall.

Mother Earth, that she was never nubile
labored faunlets with pink gumwads upon their genitals

and frothed when one creation alit inside another.

f e b r u a r y
the month we all went mad
in parallel to the month of august
when we all pledged
right hand up, against our hearts, our chests

we are sane and strong and good

we all pledged
to stay well

six
months
later,
we toast to those people
those people who are unrecognizable, now, in the fog of the glass

they draw x’s and o’s with their polished nails
and blow desperate, sticky kisses
so we know that they were us
if only for a minute

our saints of the past
won’t cease ******* us demons,
when february has passed
they will be back

then we’ll blow fairy dust off our fingertips
& wake up
with ******* on the carpet.