Wide awake rushes up my vocal cords

Nothing is so bashful nor sweet to tongues

Make my very eyelids whisper “Oh Lord”

And fall on their kneecaps burn out their lungs.

A Morning breath armchair sipping coffee breath

Red lips punch the mug right in the kisser

Of all the Mahogany nothing’s left

Hemingway spoken floats like a whisker.

I slam the window in Bossanova,

And the armchair appears- smiles a bullseye,

I printed your face without ink toner,

Into an old crossword unmemorized.

Slept like cocoons that anxiety’d worn,

Stomach full of butterflies- your front porch.

Long story in a brief-case. The happy end to a half a story in a split level house…

The gasp and the harps, played by June Carter and the angels just a mile above the pillow that the silkworms blessed. Draw a lead color shirt from the wardrobe. Put it in the dresser. No. Hung it in the closet… to bury it in the hamper. It’s lovely. But not for the doorbell.

Or the finger that bends on it upon contact.

Or the eye peering in reverse through the peephole.

You’d need a jury, honey, you’d need a jury. Just keep looking.

It’s a satire what you can get away with when you haven’t any intentions to get away. In fact, come on in.

Mirrors paint the town tonight,

And the sad funhouse-

Where I kind of pace real slow,

In that backward way, where no one knows.

The branches waltz and sway,

In developed taste,

Sky as black as day,

The pressure tied to love, rearranged.

Always, always open.

Pulse’s,

Always, always open.

In dried creekbeds,

In the voices telling me, listening,

In the reflection of skyscrapers,

In the ghosts of 743 N. Elizabeth, clamorous,

In the wine and scotch bottles, emptied, on the counter.

There is a pattern on the shelves,

Wooden bells.

Five nights a week at midnight, he dyes blue.

    Angel, you’re bad news.

    Salvation Army button-downs unbuttoned in a second our hands have introduced kinetic bear hugs, although visually frail and weathered.

    Shoulder length hair and a cuticle away from pure. obsession.

    Of all the heartbeats and hop, skips and jumps; I surrender.

    Adding the lye

    m.

    cm.

    mm.

    Get closer.

    Knock me over in slow motion.

    Tumbling rotary dial “1” click. “2” click, click.

    Rendering the grease

    I’m closing the locker when

    He appears at 11:55 P.M.

    Beat up, an 8 track cassette surviving a barrage of garage sales.

    My dear affection is still a child labor law. Juvenile.

    Staring Aderol Syndrome (S.A.S.).

    Birds nest palms, the delicate benchmark.

    I would give up half of $4.75/hr.

    Warm me up and share $9.50/hr.

    Collecting Grease

    Gunmetal blue, locker “27.”

    I read an article of clothing yesterday, not from these parts.

    At

    Your

    Steel-toe

    Boots.

    Please listen. You know the dialect.

    Coffee brewer, lighter sharer, you are the Aurora Borealis eventful.

    Five nights a week at midnight, I dye blue.

Blown glass heartbeat,

With an extension cord, the vibrations are distancing themselves,

Between macabre and *** luck and **** luck- And affection-

Are heirlooms cry of antique tears.

San Francisco Chronicle:

“Boeing kidnaps…”

And my soul bottled up in an hour layover heist.

Boeing adult-naps.

Texas.

Texas.

Texas.

Amarillo beehive hair across the aisle, smoke and honey.

It stings my tongue, kisses my lungs, legs-crossed on the highest rung.

The Miller High Life-esque, reclining on a quarter moon.

Here we are, patience and mercy.

Here we are patience.

Here we are.

Here.

You open your mouth and engulf the San Clemente Mission in flame,

Bonfires and breeze and look how you’re little Miller High Life escapade gets out of hand,

Look at the aftermath. You saw it coming. You predicted the beforemath.

Go ahead.

To mentors, you’re wrong no matter what,

Go on ahead.

To friends, you’re always circumstantially correct.

You’re led astray.

You’ll have to hide under the pier after this.

“I’m Sorry miss, you have to leave.”

Cue Grammy nominees for Reality Check and Now She’s Bawling category.

[Name Undisclosed] in… (sound of planes releasing chemicals on brushfires),

I’m hoping for a small mistake,

And granite skin,

And I’ll learn.

Until then, a bonfire sounds novel.