From my nose,
my lips and eyes–,

strings.

I’m attached to
white.

There’s a nutcracker
in my throat.

I squirm,
go down the drain–,

Slime, slime,
and strings.

Its on my legs,
my chin,
in the smell, the air.

I’m attached to home,
to the lingering
blue
of my favorite room.

If ceramic dolls were
bowls,
I’d mark them all.

notes lie crumpled in your hands,
frown split lips spill forth your sobs,
as eyes - soft focus look beyond
the clouding veil of life.
slipping out, the blood red streams
(re) paint the bathroom floor.
thumping from the door makes up
missing beats from your chest:
faltering, looking backwards,
fogging mind grasps childhood wonder
sights and sounds and vivid flow
swimming through the decades past.
final breath amidst the splinters,
showering from the broken door,
distant echoes, growing colder,
time, it hangs, forever more.

I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

I'll wait until dark
to buy myself a bottle
please, night, come quickly

i long 4 the lonely distance bared
ladies with cut lips and stitches laced
beewings and seafeathers paired
salt water ******* and eyelashed face

the distance girls are borrowed and enslaved
the country girls let it go on weekends
they're always well behaved                        

   (projections of avy
patti smith and honey
over black tea))

                      with excess love
and a goodbye kiss
                the wall of
dawn walks you home
holds your hand
and threads
the nightly fissure
on a soft slow abyss

I wish that wisps of my hair still fell
Near my cheeks
And that my lips still tasted of
Raspberry summer

My eyes grow tired and I settle for
The winter to come alone
Unpack it’s bags
And fade away your kiss goodbye

My lips now taste of
Nascent dream and
Stale bread

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know:
her dress upon my arm:
but
they will not
give her back to me.

body remains a scripture or an elixir?
my sins will deliver aroma in a mixture.
euphoria of the of the miracle comes from more than one ******.
see her in the air, here's her love now choke on it.
trashed vows, you married an astronaut
i cant breathe, snort more moon rock
So journey with me without recluse.

we erupted without fear, choices would take us there,
problems once again become magnetic
work her body and stretch em like calisthenics.
her weapon was every section of her body that came without electric
intercepting our tongues and pinching off depression.
pixels, links and interception will only drown our spirit
when you smell fear,
positively you'll hear it.
her cortex remains a vortex
tangibility in our whispers
*** in our champagne,
tears in our calypso.
no poem should ever,
be written in blisters.