.                                                                                                  



                                                                              O love
                                                                             ,my hushed cords elate
                                                                              at the stroking of your fingers

.    my soul effuses, and things even drunker than Spring have emerged   .































































­










                                                                 ,

to live which what life beyond being

   (is there some I

stagger up with moonlight
the cool instant breath
of standing hot between
nothing and nothing                            )



vast and vast and vast



that enormous when of feeling the wind
around drunk drinking of the texture of a breath:

collapsing the condescended body of the moon stars laughter just inside the house outside which dreams the world of rain darkness and the impossible languor of health–


the need

the urge

the rush

to quietly pursue books of open girlness;

pages terribly comfortable to grasp and fill within letters of self.







how which we desire what to be perfectly exact of easy being:

the frond which stands strong without tending of hand–

the garden filled with the immense flower of youth.




And never to die,
never to grow old
or weak inside.



(what an impossible thing it is to know; to love; to live                    )

what an impossible thing it is to laugh

i love you(bytheway)who
comes out darkest winter
brightly hands

your cheeks feel beyond feeling--minute

,soft,

and clothed in Summer:


dance

this moment is drunk
and occasionally says
dark things of remembering

about pushed apart legs
in April when it was alive
and something loved it more
than living–cooing even

into its soft ear vaguely
promises of forever and
keeping through death
its hands and lips and feet

     (whoosh)

but goes through the mouth
and nose hot dollops of dreamless
wine occluding speech, taking

tightness and smashing it over
the head with a memory of
a coy poem that tasted like the
sea in your mouth when

it sat on your face and
it was the only time it was ever
–truly–
                

                Alive.

.
.
  .
    .
      .
     ,
       .
         .
        ,
          .
         .
                     .


         '            
            
                                    .  




                 ,









                                                      ­     .
                                                            '
 ­                                                             ,

.

















                               (

                                       )


                        (




                                                   )



                                  
















.

let me think,


you are flesh
not flesh as
blood or
bone entwined

by limb, but
flesh as soul
through body
and lips–

Receive ever

                           hands totally

                                                       open

                      
                                                                     other hands all

                                                                                                  hands even

                                                                                                                        with love and a smile
                                                                                                                                                               A


                                                                                                                                                                L




                                                                                                                                                                W





                                                                                                                                                                 Y





                                                                                                                                                                  S

S)                                       a
                                       e
                n                                                k
                                                                              those teeth
                                                                                                   right up to my neck
                                                                                                                                        Heavy Breathing
                                                                                                                                                                        and
                                      
                                                                                                                                                                                     BITE

.







































                                "A
          lot of the time I feel like I'm
               in love with someone
                    I've never met
                                  .
                                  "











































.

spelt:

the uneven the
folding of into
mouths–

grass;

between tickles
and niggling
of thigh

sweated and
hot through
muscle of wine,

over the lips

       breaking

a dash of
                     light ;

sound
(and not sound too) –––

there is a doe
a starling
and a
thick beam

of golden wheat

parts the sun
into white manifolds
of burning health:

(wither which,
into each should go

all those summers
afore the snow) .

feels good reading whitman reading nietzsche reading christ and feeling cool between the pages of neat words how many songs of myself there is sung how many days of summer spent inside quiet and dark dark inside quiet and summer to put my teeth in and roll over the tongue the tense dew of youth and drink the pollen of easy flowers.

(to be where you are amongst your neck and your shoulders feeling needfully hunched and youthfuly broken )

to break and to be broken by–

upon rocks
upon skittering
coils of noonlight–

(the trees mark it there is a path very deeply within them

where there is cool and etherized
by curls around of night smoke)

But all that wants to be
to be inside
(to taste)
and to meet with

the uncertain darkness
of life:

girl hips, 2 in the morning, the ocean

who again is this place?

(i see you there--alive and sleeping;
amongst white flowers)

i kiss you lightly.

i am sorry for all the things i have done.

i will love you always.

goodnight.

the ******* are i love the way it's.
the and it
the does way
(forked dolllike riven).


                                                                                                     ?suppose ouy od


                             why not some let's the?

                            



                           (and maybe even harder)

questions are a lot more interesting
   (than
           (
an(swers(

feel barely(you baby)I
feel you barely baby
I feel you barely breaking
                             (baby)

beneath me baby
I feel you breaking
beneath me breaking baby
I feel you barely
and I break you
(i break you baby)
                                you barely

You beautifully breaking

"where are you?"

and by the way, "i've been"

the hour of a girl

(often to kiss the shoulders of mountainS"

leeeepinG"

shape that cuts
(girllike)
closely
shaven

with sweetness pressed
alone a little empty

needswants

filling to be

–inside–so mouth;;;

skin love,

hands dreaming on
pert curving of tiny
white white white

she she

"Can


             I


go down on you?"

SUN,

being you
being sheathed in

                       –rain

that
(drowsily)
purports between

two wet ribbons of
speckled with

impish

darling: ****** of light

            (grey and gray)

,

A city is suddenly.

it's hard
being yourself
really
          yourself
the whole
ugly perfect
thing it's
tough and
garbled and
it's hard
looking right
into the eyes
of those who
know you
and, being
yourself,

being

love's not mine

                    nor

                for

                        me

                  neither

                i
                   either

i not loved
                    exalter
                                  though

to speak love, say love, deftly

                 I

"Maybe someday I'll find someone that actually cares about me."

do i suppose to know a thing?
(i don't know it)

                            but
    supposing
                           i
                    
                                  do

     what

                     then?

tight within

      (release
                     )

muscles that
tense

upon    fiber

music     blu

as with   red
fills

            filled


thick in dark
(between
bars of
sallow
starlight–



                   breath

in inching

columns of


                   sweat
                   sweat
                   sweat;


skybreathinghandsapartkissthighsinsidesplitcurvingdeath

definitely probably
we,re all gods
sort of maybe gods
r
t
o
f
  m
ay
be gods

won't ever a star fall
briefly with light
from where a comes a leaf
(no. not a leaf. a tree)
                                     yes, a tree

   ,
       out of its throat
       that sounds like a girl sounds
       the first time her heartbreaks
       easy
       like rain
       from her eyes

of what is there,
the making of dreams?

                     some ***** perhapsness
                                           ?or

                                              the maybe of seem?

taste feels to reach to
tongue
deeply between kiss

      (lipsnotlips)

where least sleeps spring
and calls by mouth

your hips to sing,

                              ,

                              ,

                              ,

                              .

i would, perhaps, a 1,000 folded lips
crease into 1
                       kiss

the venom of thy cheeks
a smooth immolation

              REDpretty

with white beneath
neatly in rows
                                   that sharp
                  
         but



feel good

nice and
                ,

           .

                ,


   .

i will die the Spring will come out my lips a flower and will gather at my throat a forest i will not speak and it will grow softly tiny and millions

Stupid:

the raw and beautifully dumb

      (i want to hurt you)

    .A flower that's
a lot like
your mouth
and throat
choking on me;

my pistil and thread
pulling into
which heart tries to make
love from–
                     hips and head.

Χάρων is a nice fellow
by some gate
on the bank of a slow river

in the summer
his mouth
hints at
a sliver of
crisp mint

julep sweating on
the table next to my hand
occasionally a girl
between my lips

and the small body of
the city stretches
'round with
creeping dapples
of caressed heat

(and the slow bank of a long river is
waiting next to some gate i can hear
the boat creaking without weight and
all the darkness of forever at the backs
of my eyes.

it's autumn i cannot believe how i am alive again
the trees are and the day
in bits of orange
recedes into dark
fathoms of unday,

i wish my hands held
your hands that like
god hold the making
of every little nice thing

and every little ugly thing
of making inside me though

               –i wish–

how suddenly fragile i was
when we were

even though
we never                        were

. It's autumn

and i cannot believe how


i am alive

"There's nothing wrong with a ****–
just don't fall in love with one."

you the
con is ce

stract

          ab of

hurt *****
too
put inside

    me

thick fingers scarlet

(in a petite lake
of white white white )

you moan
you churn
over your belly
onto your face
"down
***
up
      ."

a heart completes, by preferred effort of word, vague love
over sea (many boys always) teeming
yearning with lust

                                   as
                                          I

uncoy, notshy, approach, baby, to ask you darling
might you also like to

                                           ****

hot

the

big                                                                                                          chattering




hulking



brute




                                                            OF





brutal                                                                                                          autumn


                                                        Death



                                                         with






leaning                                                                            into







pockets                       of





                                                              cold  cold    cold     cold       cold      cold






teeming with
suddenly sky cutting
***** life,



                                                                                                                         hurry


                                                                                                                         hurry



                                                                                                                        The



scared
scurrying
endless mound
of always needing



                                                                  TO


always                                                                                                                  be



                          

                                                                   .





                                                                   ,








                                                                   ;

.






















































         ­                                                           this is not a poem




























































­

































                               ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­             /

i shall love you
that you have been
after my own heart
as the tatse of the sea:

easy and deep beyond words;

laughing in shoals and
turgid in memory.

you are light
and beyond most things
you are the smooth
incomparable
disaster of 23 years
of screaming girlness.

you are my own,
and my flesh–
you make me.

where your lips meet

       (unmeet)

     :

there is day ;

there is night    .

Oh this were if only it were if
it might
be more possibly

to wantingly be.


                                    (but only)
                                          it's
                                        were

not if
or could.

Or if
it were
is

                       it might


(would)

     be.



an'
pleasantly so.

"I tried."

After all, "I love you."

(what more could i do?)

I.

do you know?

have you been?

have you been by the slant ways behind the hills there is store and have you
wandered much in it?

have you gone down the little rows and counted them?

have you looked into the tired eyes of weary mothers and fathers?

have you seen in them your mother and your father?

have you kissed with them your thoughts and wondered on the small
mystery of their being?

have you wondered at them looking at you(and what do they see)?

have you thought to reach out and touch them and ask them how they are doing?

have you wanted to look in their eyes and tell them that you know they are tired but there isn't much left to go and you know how hard it is and that you are sorry and that they are as soft and as infinite as your own self?

have you dreamt much?

have you gone out from the store, into the nice mouth of the city, and have you seen the same tired look in the same weary bodies?



II.

where have you been in the Summer?

have you been by the bank of a river?

did you let your toes in it, and did it feel so cool as to rush across them you suddenly want to pull them out?

and how did it feel, the first time you were kissed, and sweaty between the arms, you pushed in even tighter?

have you laughed much?

when was the last time you laughed?

did it feel as if it was the last time?

did you watch your laughter curl away into nothing like a vine of fume from a smoker's mouth?

did you watch it curl away and wonder if you might be lucky enough to laugh tomorrow(and did you wonder how many more days and nights you might be lucky enough to not laugh)?

did you cry after you laughed?

did you look down at your hands and marvel at the intricacies of your bone and flesh?

did you ever hold them up against the night sky and marvel at the tinniness of their work? (have you held them up before your face in a dark room and wondered what it would be like to not see?)




III.

have you struggled much?

do you ache, and are you sore?

do your muscles hurt?

do you feel heavy with obligation?

do you feel tired from living, and with life?

from where does your pain begin, and where does it end?

did it begin in the hands of someone you thought you loved? did it end in the empty stare of someone you thought loved you?

have you hurt anyone?

how did you feel?

did you tell yourself it was ok?

what did you tell yourself?

who were they?

why did you hurt them?


IV.

are you awake?

are you reading this?

will you wake up tomorrow (and every tomorrow until you don't), and will you remember this moment?

will it fade into nothing?

will you recall it suddenly in some still moment?

will you look out the window of your car on your way to work and catch the sliver of some stranger's face in the quick of your mind?

will you wonder on their life, and the sliver of your own face, caught in their mind?

and will you remember?

will you remember?

.



































                "It's ok. Just breathe. You're going to be alright."




























.

christian has her hair long
her face plain without
lip of makeup, and her
brief mouth is without rose;

  (i know)

i'm unsure why
the lips nothing
and hair plainly
with longness

seems feverishly something to have.

(wants i wonder which
within your hips are softly sleeping;
it needs to fill the itch–
their strictness always keeping)      .

who forgot a word their lips trying to
find stumble stiffly up into the mouth
of a gun's barrel saying,

"Someday you'll see it."

with love often
i am more than
with you
more than nearly
love i'm only
more devoted
than to you
even i'm with
only love

not matter does whatever this world thinks(i

will go by flights of angels
)on

their breath

i will go by florid gasping of soundless immutable
waters into

              waters of. i

will pass my little ship its sails may bend
but
i will go o'

i will go shall not by the whatever the world thinks

despite angels (on whose breath shall carry me

into

.






































           "Seems a little ***** to me."

















































.