One day I will
Publish ten books of poetry and
Burn eleven of them.

on this cold august morning
i feel melancholy because
i gave  love away to one man while
thinking of another man whose
heart sadly belongs to a kind woman whose bones show
all the way through her skin and whose face always looks
tired and mouth is
creased at the edges
and always billowing earnestly.

i gave love away again
body stained in blueduskhalflight
heart a plump and cold and wild piece
of fruit splitting
and juicing sweetly and silently within me.

i carved a space for myself in the flesh
of a man i barely know but find beautiful.
that is good enough reason for me by now.

i used to wait for the feeling of urgency and
hope one swallows
when beginning what they think will be the end.
the first moment of a body is a holy moment when you
think it will be the last body.

all the soulful forms i once treasured like heirlooms
now lie still
gathering dust in warped memory rooms-
they stay young and foolish and hopelessly recklessly gorgeous
they stay freshly freckled smooth watery eyed and kind hearted,
while i grow wise and brown with years and vicious with years
my collection of ghosts
preserve in their sleepily curling hands
some ****** up perfect version of loveandforever
that i once concocted

not so long ago it seems.

golly gee
the yellow moon
and the hairs on the back of your neck

I think I saw a miracle tonight
in your eyes

ski socks on
with model clay in my hands
and a sweet face that smells like cherry pie

do I rely
on make-believe books
or real life
parallels
or the corners
and nooks

of a life far away
not of mine
but in me

oh how silly and lovely these days

Writing on the front page:
garbage of the new age.
Hello, Poetry.

I am pressed between
the weight of your breath
and the sighs in my spine.

I am gripping a hand
that feels more like my own
than another's.

I am staring behind closed eyelids.
I am panting inside collapsed lungs.

Never before have I spread myself
so thinly
across foreign sheets.

Never before have I been so full;
never before have I been so thin.

it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene

need;it’s funny.  They will all be dead

knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.

It is a funny,thing.  And you will be

and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed ****** with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better

than me will you like the rain’s face and

the rich improbable hands of the Wind)