self righteous, self published
sought out and backlash
sick of  black and white
pictures of **** women
and being taboo

and the only thing left in the house that’s interesting to see
is the moon through the window

but you came along
smashing my head against a windshield,
and the moment of collision
a weightless jolt

voices echoing through the cracks in the asphalt
gas leaks making me light heading and I’m hearing
little melodies in light bass tones

a gust of wind down the hill blows cracked leaves
between my boots and I feel as if I
was falling from a tree myself.

And you hit me again
thrusting over and over
pulling my skin off
in a delirium, where
I numb my mind and try to read
the story of your wall before you open your eyes again
or I watch your chest, wondering how quickly
your heart must be beating and how
my legs are soaked
wreaking of *** for the rest of the afternoon
before wandering back to my bed

sleepwalking to the beach, with images,
rapids, sediment ashtrays covered
in squatters,
voyagers trying to stay the night without
freezing to death because the residents
across the boardwalk wouldn’t trust a
tattered traveler with only enough possessions
to fit on his back.

reveries, savages, vagrants,
in dreams follow me in the woods
syndicating ****** schemes
to keep me on edge

the moon plays these motion pictures
and I consume myself every night
before the sun light.