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rather than think:
i miss you

i say,
i'd rather not
eight ante meridiam

cinnamon toast in the solarium

i'm not much different than the mutt basking on a chaise opposite
stick it to me

with false pretenses and fluttering lashes

waylaid kisses and promises of breakfast
can't you see what i'm trying to do
it's about ******* time you knew

so cold it's almost hot
your face an apparition in the backyard lot

broken glass above snow above grass
leave it to the espresso machine
to laugh at my loneliness

a *** is meant for two
not one
not three
what's that there in your hand

it's nothing

less the gaping cavity in my sternum says otherwise
second place ribbons are usually red
they're all i ever win
or lose anyways

so i'll knit myself a scarf from a hundred of the fibers
and when i've clawed at my neck and started to bleed
no one will be able to tell red from red
dead from dead
here's to
ugly green envy

and hot water from blackened and forgotten pots
boiling over onto things you thought were clean
******* Then/Take The ******* Sun With You (Tongue In Cheek)
yesterday
you said yes
and let me
come close
enough
to count
the freckles
i never
knew
you had
no perks to being this wallflower
we haven't even reached tyronne street

           /the end of our lives

we've still got a block to walk

          /twenty years together
left & leaving

the sun ain't sleeping

tears thick on lashes
cloud one's vision
what's the stupid smirk doing on your face

wipe
        it
           off

it's a disgrace
syllables flicker
between
unrelenting self pity,
and berations
poorly disguised
as remorseful verses
you're a real piece of work
all rothko
and no manet

boring lines
keeping the colors
from conversing
i refuse to do what i'm told

shovel the driveway

why?
the snow's not doing anyone any harm
the concrete is no less cold
when bare
and buffeted by small, stamping feet
morning
could come
and there would be
no way
to wring
my hands
of their
loneliness
it's no use,
leave the earth around our tomb alone


there are no flowers left there
for bees to pollinate
with whispers of why we fell
learn to speak slowly
and deliberately

so that  my eyes
might understand you
better
than my ears
Inspired by a reading of Rumi by Tilda Swinton
toothpicks
won't pick
the ****
from out beneath your gums

nor will
denial
cauterize the memories
off your nerve endings
Another bad poem in efforts for expulsion
index
Ba-Be

Back dimples,


pg. 22-?
back
to
morning ***** tonics
and
*******
white ****** cigarettes
suffice
it to say

i don't care
for the way you sell yourself

in all illogical functions
and song lyrics
we're not here
to serve as a distraction
from the real ignorance
that plagues you
like jaundice
on a yellow moon
i'll never again
look at any girl longingly

the glint in their eyes
never means
come here

instead it always says
*i know
how well
do i know
that slow
heartache
of waking
to the moon
and not the sun
where
one
begrudgingly
learns
a cruel lesson or two
in
humanism
frantically
retreating
like my ******* father's hairline
you're neither girl
nor woman

i'm a man,
you're a machine
i fed too many numbers
i suppose
now
i needed another mother
not a child that needed
looking after
Three months in summation.
we don't all know that sinking

feeling

thinking

nobody else wants to understand me
re:

we've still got our mouths

mine doesn't ever tread lightly
the windy city
won't let me light any cigarettes



no matter, second hand smoke rules these streets
and i'm already in love
respectfully declining
an invitation
to have at
the pieces of your heart

overcooked, i would say
if only
just for two
or three
ticks
or
tocks
of the clock
you stopped
thinking of me
my misanthropy
isn't as naturally
occurring
as the dullness
of your tongue
mother
watch me burn
through
these matchbook girls
all flimsy cardboard
and acrid sulfur
so dim
a soft spring whistle
blows them out
the world isn't ending
don't try carrying me away
with swipes of a double edged sword
verbose lunges
now that kisses aren't so quick and
sharp
lay low
in the grass
and laugh
as red sweeps your wrists
hands sway with stalks
of golden wheat
buy
back
the vast grey
and reclaim
pluto as a planet

maybe the martians
will better understand
those childish musings
that are your thoughts
as haunting
as the rigidness of your back
or suppleness of where that straight line leads
i
for anyone else wondering when it will stop
it won't
stop trying to fill the cup
bottoms been cut out
we'll always move across dimly lit rooms
and lick at our petal blossom wounds
waiting on someone to dress them
while ******* themselves

ii
if i could hide in the valley between your milky ribs
i wouldn't mind the sand
or storms
of stranger's fingers
i swear
it's that natural light
while making friends
with shy dust

that makes me feel most happy
and less cold
we can't all laugh off another's
longing
and
eye roll so beautifully.
the constellations
i could
draw
with kisses
in the valley
between
each
milky rib
morning would come
and cast a shadow off your lower lip
the dark valley always
signals
for me to kiss you awake.
cause
you can't miss
what
you
forget
american football
i treat you like i do a ripe peach
nuzzle smooth skin
and search for that scent
which tells me to smile
and sink incisors in
tie back
those homely strands
with extravagant bows

you're nothing more
than
a box
inside a box
inside a box
inside a box
inside an empty
box
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