We spent hours on our skateboards
Hot days and cold nights
Skinned knees bleed slightly; they drip lightly on the same asphalt
that we glide over all afternoon
Rubber wheels smack cracks in the sidewalk
Wood scrapes concrete as you launch into the

                                          air

if only for a moment
Everyone comes down

Rosy from the sunshine
T-Shirt stuck slightly to my sweating back
I wheeled myself under the installed cedars,
over littered leaves,
around suburban corners
A man in an orange vest held up his arms, beckoning mothers in their
vans to stop for me while I skated by but
I didn’t thank him
I felt regret

In your room we fumbled awkwardly in the half-light
Sunshine warmed us in slats through your dusty blinds
Partially filled cups sat atop your dresser, full of water and red pop
There was a buffalo springfield poster on your wall and I thought you
were devastatingly cool
We’re sixteen and we’re not in love but we love what we’re doing

I still remember your skin, it was olive dark and bruised all over,
when I ran my fingers down your back white lines remained for a
fleeting moment
Short shorts and a long shirt, these memories are vivid
I wonder where you are now – an actress I hear, which is funny
because I never really thought you were any good
I wonder if you still find the minutes to take your old skateboard,
covered in dust and the film of time, out of whatever buried corner it
inhabits

Back in your bedroom, my hand lingers next to yours as we sit close on your bed
While you contemplate my lips, I contemplate yours
I’m a little late for dinner

the air is silent tonight

her revolving thighs, pressed. i

sprial like a catnap

between the orange and

blue glow of fire light.

here, undressed,

amber inside

wild without regrets.

a twinkling.

as i breathe in the moist tendrils

softly on my lips

does this flavor of tragedy

bleed from my womb onto thin

carpet

here fore us

(encore

us)

*

       .

       .

i don’t know

whatapoem

-

is or is

-

not, a parent

or any word it

could be related

-

-

absolutely

-

-

-

to a pomegranate

it could be french

-

for apple or dressing

for hair, for an aunt

-

-

I don’t know

whatisin

it, a seed

-

-

maybe it’s me

maybe it’s

you

We are messy opposites,

in our various states of undress.

This un-tucked condition

allows promise to come

apart at the seams,

lies confirmed in graphic splendour.



Refusing to taint modesty

with formaldehyde kisses,

there can be no pretense here;



I stifle my gag reflex,

lips quivering.



You are more comfortable

allowing your skin to access mine,

than with its grotesque injustice.



You confess inadequacies,

and though the rhetoric

is convincing indeed,

your hollows betray you.

Oscillating pulse blood

          makes perfect puddles

Makes swamps and marshes and wild bayous

         Puddles of thick sticky gloopy innards soak red **** carpet

In roadside motels
        
          Where we took turns on a parlytic ***** and he cried the ***** time

You mean the whole time?

          Stop daddy stop! Everything makes me uncomfortable.

No it's fine, everything is always fine.