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Kissing the moonlight
      Her soft cotton lips
      Struck me in red

Rubbing against my neck
        Glowing luminescent

The scent of the sky
           Was in my bed
           Acting innocent

Time wasn't there
     Until he barged in

Stealing those kisses away
                             Burning sun

What I held in my arms
                Under the stars
Was a temporary space

Another universe
          Milky in way

Couldn't I go back in the moment
                                      In my memory

Through a black hole
             Of outer space

Kissing the moonlight
       On her cotton face

I'm just an astronaut
              Floating away

How much distance
              Can you take

  Her beams are so soft
They treat me like skin
Like the wind of a woman
                  Blowing through
                  Sun rays

  You can find me in orbit
Where you wouldn't stay

I'm just a cosmic masculine

Floating in the humans
           Infinitesimal race

Kissing the moonlight
On the soft of her face

Unto her cottons lips
                               I fade…
don’t numb that brain silly boy

put it to good use

cleave in half

the line parsing

chest from

chin hair

        you’re a man when

        you say you are

save the streaks of palm-filth

dug-under nails broken

buried under dirtweight

what do you know of slippage


****** as inch-thick glass

run through a filter

                        tossed aloft


        the ceiling


I’m left for nothing of my efforts

it's dirt under the fingernail

        you can taste it

it's dirt

        taste it
dirt taste short attitude front survive life ride streaky
Every song or sonnet
singular in its intricacy,
in time it becomes something
other, hyper-personal and resonant.
14 things may burst into millions.

Three times I've felt alone
this minute. I should stop tallying
hours in my schedule, messy

11-years old and jumping off
mud-mounds, playing King of the
Hill. The strongest rises to the top.
The cleverest usurps.

One thing for certain:
we are human. We are
not human.

Six times in school I got
detention. It was often due
to my willingness to be a
follower, silly sheep to a

Five languages of love we are
sure of, no more so far.

10 tally marks looks a lot
like less. Some things, like
people, refuse to show their

13 is supposedly an unlucky
number. At this age I uncovered
a part of myself I did not know
before. Discovery. This is luck.

A dozen is meant to represent 12
because it is simpler, same syllables
only one less letter, a convenience.

If you flip an eight on its side
you can see forever.

Seven times I've thought this poem

[redacted for time constraints
and continuity]

The artist places her pen to
paper and borrows, not stealing
so much as salvaging, wrapping
old presents in neat new bows,
satin or silk or rough twine.
Nine variations on the same

Four lids harbor two eyes,
a galaxy, universe,
each hiding half a heaven
from view.
There is something to be said about the silence that navigated
Our second to last kiss as if it was searching for someone to blame;
It's the same as realising that when you asked for space
I foolishly gave you enough galaxies so you could always find a place to shine.
But now, in this moment where I am inches away from reaching for your hand

I understand why the earth circles the sun-
Celestial longing clinging on to the rope that this swing is swung
I hold out my arms to the space where you no longer belong,
With lips laced with goodbyes and the taste of your tongue.
I've lent myself to self
parody. I am yellow grass
in summer. So easy to see
in daylight, split-rays.

Again I stumble through the
door too closely, nose grazing
siding too rough, not fit for
suburban living.

I am outside now, cigarette in lungs
almost empty of airspace. Tight
breath, silt sinew of exhale and
burning, eyes painted in panic.

Four smokes in, cherry blossom
cheeks, a rosary of liquor, perhaps
lending myself to sanity,
a bright morning in autumn.
Bend at the waist
be a doll, doll,
dance your *** down
this way, my way
into sentiment, burning
images onto the brain
you can't get away.

Bend babe, shake or
shiver as you please
let lethargy melt into
unkempt smiles, deep
dimples of face-skin
softened in sweet sun ray.

All the people in the street.
Where are they going, and
what does that mean in the
end-times, the ever-present hour
of a dying world's last breaths,
here for sole reason of shepherding
the sheep, because you're a wolf
are you not?

Miles above the weeping masses,
holding it together with barely
a grip to give name; coping
they call it, accepting reality as
objective, something separate from

I imagine the world as a bubble
and I hold the pin-needle, too close
to body to alarm and too close
to bubble to bat away, bend
please, bend at wrist for sake of
sanity, bury yourself neck-deep in
chance. Bend babe,
bend away.
There are empty pages that yearn for ink describing her loving caress.
There are empty beds that beg for the arch of her lower back.
I know which one I would rather fill.
In the glow of an intransigent moon,
she looked up at dull stars with a twinkling bitterness.

All she wanted was the sun.
She wanted endless yellows and reds.
Light to be shed upon her world.

But she was stuck under a film of grey.

And the night would not relent.
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