i've written sixty eight poems
on adderall in an hour and all of them
are living up and getting married
having kids and taking three week
vacations in the carribean
living fulfilled lives under no control

healthy, fruit dripping naturally
even when things go wrong
they sleep soundly.
i am distracted by how perfect they are
and admire them with jealousy
when i should be asleep

prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.

letting loose old chains
you and your wry laughter
defeated by the day old machines
of life and their constant clogging

time's hands tear into spring
nail first, peeling off the light constricting canopy
twisting barbwire off delicate skin
strangling you on a couch from hell

wake up to the smell of bourbon
and dead roses - so pretty
your lashes creating the shadows
on your gaunt cheekbones, and your name is Soul

in already @ first streetlamp
the ocean states away
with my broken complacency,
new deserts, mollasses blood
settled in my feet within each footprint
lunar lisping in the night air
augment consolement in me
because i feel empty
eyes swimming in the new view

then there is you in all your theatricality
chasing gelid wind like its a nowhere job
selfies on snowy sidewalks
have we more time than just one
or two? have you enough of my futility?
when angels sweat they let out
icy winds and rain but
when you carassed my cheek
i felt the cool of the breeze smoothing my skin
and i understood to make my feet move
after the wind and never stop

settled in a glass grown vineyard,
the sleep-addled living room
door with gutteral hinges, making friends
with pall mall smoke rings
and let ghost blood spill all over
on couches and our moncler's
wake up to the sound of you crying
on the staircase feeling the scratchy carpet
through blankets on the bed
like my heart is teething, hurting again
he picked me up and lay me there
like you once did except you've been dead
for five years

ash stains and cosmopolatin zines
bathroom savoring night-rain
like lorn and lone trucker tobacco
sky forged in dark blues outside a cracked
window, like you in the closet ****
but the door opened up enough to tell.

1. flesh simpering but the voice a sullen
conversation of silence and broke dreams
television with hundred and forty channels
and half open beer cans.

2. silence still drags kissing and murdered
autumns, shadow of hands over flush skin
lurking moonlight invited.

in morning i'll wake with a human
but tonight you are a god with your hands
roaming my hipbones & sleep with
you, my mind running thoughts
like trains on spinal cord railroads