i hate men who open doors
who lick the floors where i step.
who bring gifts and fill their lips
with easy words to carve
holes into bone marrow.
give me your eyes, give them
your hands, i will wear like
gloves, white doves, while i
eat dinner without candlelight,
without that kite attached to
your heart, a la carte. the wind
blows, i can't slow it, i can't know it
will begin, stillness in the sky. why
misogyny? monogamy with masochism.

her purse is a suitcase,
a leather body bag
just less than a hearse
just more than a gag.
some sheets are made of water
other sheets are made of down
but nobody knows when the daughter
of serenity will come around.
she may appear like a cat
by your window late at night
and from her bag a little hat
to cup and crown her white knight.
dare not try and hold her
for she'll jump from your arms
shaking grief from her fur,
licking guilt from her charms.
she doesn't seem to know
that her purse is a chrysalis
and to enter is to let go
of serenity from her bliss.

kiss me through the glass
and the steam from my
breath will blur your face.

how did you get inside
here, I brought you some
cigarettes, now take them

and we can touch fingers,
or I'll press my hand up to the
window and close my eyes.

the woman said I could come
frequently, but that you might not
come, no signatures, no papers,

with that straightjacket on.
don't look at me like that.
our visits are seldom

enough, and I wish for more
than minutes, here I'm
just around the corner and

you prefer empty contours.
just let go and fall. I'll catch you
I promise, I'll catch you.

i stand before you—
deep, dark and down,
shall i enter thru
with no one else around?
an emotion carved from emptiness,
a beginning without end,
the entrance is the only exit
will my fears transcend?
your shadow is white stone
the floor is craggy and wet
i must continue all alone
with neither light nor regret.
my mirror is your breathing-
a subtle echo, drip drip,
and if the roof starts crumbling
amid your walls I will slip.
so maybe I'll just stay here
and watch your silhouette
at least then I'll appear
calm outside your violet.

i'm unaccustomed to carrying my heart
on my head across this field of mouths.
i know you lie inside one of them,
but my journey is long, twenty nights,
and my stubbornness accentuates my ******.
there are endless lips but only one entrance,
like rays of sun, the butterflies slow down
to the speed of parasols to pick up this epistle.
yet i'm unable to shake the maggots from my atrium,
you see, i'm alone in a park full of lovers
talking in tongues, fingers rooted in neck and hip.
yes, I wouldn't move a mile of you
to accommodate an inch of me. I'll arrive late,
eliminating holes by virtue of the *******.
hands are weights, and your wings
are elusive if not transparent.

your silence has opened a wound in my oxygen,
and when I inhale, my lungs fill with butterflies.
tick, the bomb in my chest, nothing sporadic,
so I move slowly to prolong the explosion
that will push them out in a stream of crimson.
suspense lives in my blood like roots in the soil
where a crow now sits, hungry, looking at me,
snapping at the patterns, only it knows the weather be.