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Regards P@ulpayment.

Love P@ul.
The milk man died last week.  I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.

I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros.  I sold her a pack of silvers

once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously.  She hasn't come back

to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over.  The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.
Rick, you really ****** me up man.  Even if you were kind of an ***.
I am two:thirty heat lightning.
Inconquerable flashes of my elemental fury
leap from grumbling cloud to dewy earth,
dancing naked under a smoky moon. I am a burning
offering to the sodium lamp sentinels looming golden
over black tar; there is tobacco sown
into my every pore.  I am the underestimated
weight of fog rolling off the meadow's swollen calf
river, the heavy lowing of labor pains, the thick
croak of the year's last bullfrog. I am the first
crunch of dying light, the gray tinge of wood smoke
on chlorophyll burned red. The sting of my icy breath
creeps into sleeping eyelids, through every crack
in waterlogged armor.  My frosty four o'clock
is no place for strangers.  The frozen silence
does not know my strength.  I will bend the world
with feet of glass.  In time, the weight will break
my own limbs, expose their green, soft meat.

I am the green shoots of daffodils sharp,
triumphantly cleaving the rested dirt.  There is yellow
warpaint across my forehead, a crown of blistering elegance
glazed by wings of stubborn three:thirty ice. I am resilient
and eternal—perennial—blooming to a cold, white moon.
you will never break my spirit, world.
I never liked beets; too soft, too red
too round, too bulbous,
too much like a bloodmoon.

I cannot live in these shaman
sleeves. They're heavy as rocks beneath
the waves, soaked to the bone
by a salty, sunless sea.  Too much
blue is bleeding into billowing wool, red as beet.

There's never an anglerfish
when you need a light, no beetbulb of flame
for that last rush of smoke before the black
undercurrent squeezes the air too thin.
 Sep 2015 Sal Gelles
This love
Big love
     sweet, salty
          kissing, sweaty skin love
          licking the lengths,
              and slow,
                   to savor love
     heat builds, slick
          fingers, lips thick
               wanting, wanting,
                     wanting this love.

This love
Big love
      hot, deep
          electric, passing love
                 fingers to chests
                      tongue to tongue
                            hips to hips
     building in a moment, love
           this bliss.
                   this love...
Mind where you walk
for you will hear people say
keep off the grass man
and you know
that's a thing I am not going to do
and that's why you found me laying here
watching the clouds passing me by
and hearing the music of the wind
enjoying the feelings of a nuclear sun
and in my mind writing
Keep off the my ******* grass man.
True Story    P@ul.
Dust on my hands
dust in the air
that dust gets every where
dust it off
go on with life
and wait till the new dust blows
covering you from head to toes
o' no
dust in my hair.
True story   P@ul.
 Jul 2015 Sal Gelles
he rakes me
sharply, softly,
    with big, sturdy hands

watching the red spread
all the way down

the sudden intensity
sets my sleepy skin ablaze
and my consciousness uncoils
in the haven of his arms...

*good morning, love.
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