Sweet nothings race through my head in iambic pentameter.

Because without rhythm, what am I?

Because without delivery, I may as well perfect silence.

Our passion was once Shakespearean,

But it convinced me today that it is ready for the 1940’s,

And the 1950’s.

Today. The present. Is not ready for you, or myself for that matter.

I think:

“Love. This is so novel. But the kids… they won’t get it.”

Void of any era.

It was born in Act I, strong.

As a puppy with disproportionate paws and absurd coordination.

We shouldn’t have held something with so much instability.

Love, I’ve seen Act II come and go.

And now I’ve come to find myself in the crescendo of Act III.

I hope to stay.

I hope you stay.

boy may move

make moves

the coast sways blue

ghostly grey quaaludes

gasp and gather and get gone

see gulls

see “get out of dodge” a la roget

sunburnt skin Rośe

aloe

vera ****

saint white

more saint than yves laurent

freighter; only witness

speak now

or hold your peace

see “forever” a la webster

I am a cloudwatcher. I am a listener of dripping faucets.

I used to be a dream catcher. Now my dreams are cautious.

Lame and mute and easily trapped.

A re-run of nothing lasts.

-But nothing.

That always hangs about.

Nothing.

I’ve found a generous amount.

Of nothing.

Thanks for always being there.

Nothing.

sugar

i’m standing on a toilet

in the boys room

killing cigarettes

sugar

i’m shaking

for every withdrawal

the nite of

sugar

i want to leave you

i can’t

i can’t

Standing next to you and your cigarettes

Love drunk and I’m kicking the flower beds

I am off the receiver

I am in pieces

The summer amnesia

Whispers a secret

To have to learn to say goodnite

To have to learn to say goodbye

Is something strange

I don’t know why

To have to say goodnite

Is having to say goodbye.

I’ve forgot what beauty smells like

after the gulls

and the four winds

loving the memory of something

or

someone

on the coast and stomach-aching

dismal

you are the denominator

and i hate arithmetic

math

algebra

of all the nonsensical

i loath the formula that makes me think of you

it’s tested. tried.

tried tried tried tried tried.

and tried

it’s a formula that doesn’t let me have

anygoddamnedthing

and here

with the metronome heartbeat of god and water

and my mother

earth

the glare of alone

can blind

Tartan scarf and smirk,

I checked your sleeves for your heart and we spoke as plainly as plaid,

A bail of hay,

Perfect for your ***,

Seated,

Rested so my chest can pump all this blood to my brain.

Light.

Headed.

I know you.

No, I do.

Like I Love Lucy re-runs,

Or an abandoned auto-parts yard,

Searching for an engine, a motor, a drive,

To push gears,

Grind pistons and **** me up.

I’ve found it.

Now break me.

Put me in chapter 11.

Can’t pay a visit.

Page 2, verse 4,

“I’ve

Got

A high-rent heart,

tied in a knot.”

You’re a scoundrel.

This is your doing.

But I know you.

Wrapped in a Woolrich flannel and slapping my face red-and-black

Without saying a word.