Prologue: He wrote her a poem
With the weight of a love letter
Her wrote her one hundred more
Just to know she was truth

I want to budget
my words
To strangle the
syllables
To pin down the point
To lock into you

so now I am
Sisyphus ready
my hands on the boulder
so steady the blood from the dig in my shoulder

I lock my eyes on the sun
to find a find a place on the grip
but
would take the weight of the world
for a
taste of your lip


**** it
I’m
ready to serve
only
you

so
how do I
coldly
crack ribs
in a caged heart of strife?
without stealing
the lungs
of the one who breathes life?

I meet you often in my late hours morose
meditating on mad dreams
Your cockiness verbose
just give me the word
I’ll do as you please
you can file your nails
as my tongue splits your knees

(Bukowski) Banging (******* skeleton keys) a sentence assassin
killing paragraphs (open essays diminished)
as the typewriter talks till it laughs (in tatters+finished)
screaming
”take me through door after door!!!”

Always seeking
the right words,
From love’s lexiconic relief,
the sentence that shatters,
so don’t run on the dream
it’s punctuation that matters
the period that finally
bores into you.