beLIEve.


*for my purple taco

mcdonald's dollar coupons
getting wet in my pocket,
in the rain.

"lo,
we’ll have to settle
for something cheap
for dinner tonight."

my lover’s perfect legs,
the  angle of the arch
of her back.
her two feet.
her ten toes.


*for my lo

"life is like darts,"
the pretty, little drunk girl
said, *"the more you miss
the bullseye,
the more you know
how not to hit it."

i had two thousand dollars
in my pocket,
a full pack of cigarettes,
and an eight ball back at the hotel.
it was sunday.
i didn't have a girl,
and so i told the bartender
to line the shots up for us.

who said i'm even aiming?


* for my bullseye

things get boring.
even vaginas get boring.

a thousand vaginas
might not get boring,
neither would a million.
i’d like a million vaginas.

i would eat and drink from them,
use them as bait,
sell, smoke and ponder them,
write sonnets for them
and live in them,
glorify,
sail and sauté them.

then they wouldn’t be
vaginas at all.
they would be more like a habitat,
or an ecosystem.

now that might be something
of interest.

eleven hundred,
twenty-three feet up,
looking out over
shannonadoa valley
at midday
and the only thing
i could see
was her face.


*for my lo

*******.
whitman,
was that not his name?
his poetry
was only good
because the language
was more beautiful
back then.

i am just the tip
of a burnt match
left smoldering
in the ashtray,

but you,
in your version of
the universe
and everything--

you made me
a ******* forest fire.


*for my purple taco