I have a two
track mind.
The first is for
disjointed
****** fantasies.
The fast kind that soak
the bed sheets.
Flirting with felony,
twice the speed limit,
flying downhill,
picking up
inappropriate
speed.

The other track
sends neural
suicide notes
from the attic of my brain
to the basement
of my heart, slowly,
in a school zone,
with the emergency
brake on, grinding
cold metal
on the pavement,
causing sparks.

I enjoy the first,
fleeting thought of you, your
cracked lips that I
can fix. This love
is gone, I was given only
a glimpse.

Suicide lulls
and moves too slow, and waits
at cross streets, out of gas
empty but moving
just fast enough
for me to remember
it exists.