Yes
I'm a dummy
So use
my body
To send your message
All my words are yours
Since you've inserted yourself in my
cavity
Dumb and speechless
without you
I come to life in your presence
And alone
I'm stiff in a pine wood
box.

In truth you live through me
And only through these felt lips can your truth come
Intently tinged by this cynic, sardonic, wise
***
This piercing needle through your wanton
hubris
I'd turn this wood to flesh
But what would you have left to
burn for warmth
To use
And use up.

Those magnetic moments
leave me clammy with
guilt and yet
beading with the shame
of shamelessness.

Can we kiss out the heat between us?
as though passion
were a black plastic lighter
and each kiss burns
a "click" of butane, in hot
succession until just firefly sparks
remain.

No
this heat is doused with salt
water, inciting a satin catharthis.  
Unrelenting
these fat tears turn the flames
to smoke.
I am strangled, gasping for a hint
of sweet relief and
begging for the air I waved off, thinking it had
grown stale.

I can't tell if I love you or
my ego does.

When I open my mouth
Someone else sneezes
The door bell rings
The kettle starts to call
And the sirens scream down the way

When I draw in my breath
A bus screeches to halt
The jet overhead picks up speed
The coffee grinder goes
And a dog sounds a sharp alarm

When I put pen to paper those noises ebb but never completely abate.
So, ever after, I'll be making myself hoarse, trying to get a ******* word in.

I haven't written in a while, but today i find my insides anxious and agitated, banging on powder blue walls.
Each dawn I rise and wonder how much lower we've sunk into the ooze.
Denying the humanity in each other, even when you sit close enough to count your freckles in my inky pupils.
I drink rye, lip to bottle, and slip it a little tongue, as though the warm brown ***** will blanket me in calm and rock my heart to sleep.  I long for the cavernous burn of a cigarette, exquisitely gross.
The heat is getting to me now and I sit upright, my back speckled with rug detritus from an exasperated, sticky summer sweat.
I yearn for moments decades old, barely a feeling, just an itch in the back of my skull.
...Maybe if I dive into your life I can make more sense of mine, and view our reflection from underneath the waves.
Go grab my noseplugs.

Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.

Perhaps I should be.

I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.

If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?

I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.  
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.

I'm not a poet.
I'm just ******* a lot.