Clothes constrain
Skin contains
The insides I wear on the outside
You don't have to scratch the surface
To find hidden meanings
To catch a glimpse of passion
To see my blood reaching boiling point
You don't have to dig your nails in
To reach through the seven layers
To hear the whispers written on my bones
Scriptures ooze from the ruptures
Lush red tastes of rusted words
Skin the binds
Skin that hides
Stretches over my memories
I wear the patchwork quilt of history
Of the mothers and fathers who have gone before
Sewn together with the glorious stories of yesterday
Stitched with the future's threads
The hopes and dreams of the generations yet to be
My heart, my soul, my skin, my home

My teeth getting cleaned
I choose to hold in a ****
Becoming a man

Reading during lunch
On the screened in back porch
When I notice
Apart from the other moths
That are fluttering and
Kissing the bent, thick
Stems of the spider plants
That grow against the dirt
Stained panels of the porch

A little white moth
Smashing itself against
The inside of the wire mesh
Windows

My book open on my lap
I watched him beat his
Powdered body fruitlessly
Looking for a way to rejoin
His other moths amongst
The spider plant blossoms
Wilted white and
Putrefying purple

Still open
I rested the books sturdy
Spine on the smudged glass
Of the coffee table

It took me a few times
To cup him in my palms
Giving him a wide berth
In his fleshy cell his wings
Still beat furiously against
The worn lines in my hands

I didn't open the storm door
I poked my hands through
A hole the hounds had made
And cracked open the restraints
Of the little white moth

He sat unmoving on the edge
Of my fingers
Wings still
Antennae still
Before fluttering off
Into the syrupy hues
Of the August afternoon

I sat back down
Looked to the open face
Of my book and wiped
The residue of the
Little white moth onto
My dress pants

Like the feverish beating
Of its wings on my hands
The bleached brushstrokes
On my dress pants
From the little white moth
Have since disappeared

The front of the place
Smells like buttered
Noodles if you served them
In a shoe
The carpet is brown
To hide stains
Half deflated balloons
Dance sadly under the
Air vent

"So sorry, food will be out
In just a minute!"
She runs back from
Behind the counter
Into the kitchen
The cooks and her
Arguing in mandarin

That's fine I say
I'm not in a rush

I sit on the leather couch
Across from a cloudy tank
Full of fat bright orange carp
They swim lazily in circles
Bumping into each other
And the glass, not understanding

Breathing their own ****
That tumbles in the air filter
Bubbles at the bottom of
The tank

I think about going to
Sit back at my desk
While locking eyes with
The fattest one of the bunch

There are worse ways to exist
At least my ****
Gets pumped into someone
Else's tank

Her lips, like red roses,
We're planted on mine,
Her skin, like fresh linen,
Soft and warm,
Her smiling eyes
like summer So bright

My surprised reaction
Inspired attraction
As she pressed her mouth
Harder on mine

This has happened before
But it wasn't as fun, no,
It was much better this time

raspberry lips on sweet cream skin
you cut your eyes over your shoulder
to gaze at me in the mirror & my heart could cease beating

arrested under your glare & sinew
pressed to bone as those eyes
squeeze me dry like hung flowers
I know I'll be left to endure the
winter alone
as your gaze averts & returns to the task
of applying your cheeks
and sending me to hell
with your silence