The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****,
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.

Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.

Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.

Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.

the
thin
poem
has
a
few
solid
rules:
one
or
two
or
three
words
at­ the most
to
a
line
and
keep
the
subject
simple
don't
muddy
the
reader's
brain
with
poems
about
suicide
or
adolescence
or
the
loss
of
beauty
or
innocence
or
some
crazy
time
someone
had
at
a
drive-in
movie
a
hundred
years
ago
on
a
hot
sticky
night
with
a
godzilla-like
monster
fil­ling
the
screen
while
they
were
sprawled
out
on
the
backseat
of
an
old
chevy
(and
why
is
it
always
an
old
chevy?)

thin
poems
should
not
explore
*******
or
the
rumblings
of
gastrointes­tinal
distress
or
*******
or
descriptions
of
the
napes
of
necks
or
the
sizes
of
*******
or
the
way
certain
people
use
their
bodies
in
moments
of
intense
passion

thin
poems
should
center
on
lofty
themes
romantic
ideals
and
maybe
sometimes
even
ponder
the
existence
of
god

you
could
also­
write
a
pretty
good
thin
poem
about
a
spider
skimming
along
a
gossamer
thread
b­ut
i
think
that
one's
probably
already
been
done
to
death

meandering the chorus of his scent, i am lost
between the steeple of his belly
and his mouth

i wander. consuming his pleasure  with teeth,
softly, as though he were a baby bird.


i worship the sunrise in his neck. on all fours,
i pray that the sun sets between us
beautifully. maybe in another life, we

could be a temple of a shared two bodies,
twilight after twilight, upright, hand in hand.

but as it is, tonguing the canyons, the valleys
the napes, and the summits
       his mouth
becomes melody. singing without words
that he will encapsulate me. wholly

much like a tremendous hunter. but gently,
with purpose alight, we surrender. together,

shared steeples above our carnage, heaving.
the doorway to mutual softness   open

A time will come for wants and needs
for things we thought by summer trees
when things were odd,but odd to us
is strange and changed and disarranged
the thought of right was surely wrong
yet wrong right now can still belong
and time it still falls from the face
where hands they glide by gentle pace
concealed by a sneer that waits
a centaur, it minds the gates
with children's teeth around his waist
and golden locks down by his face
return once more while still awake
the gray, the old, with ernest hate
to strip the bloom from garden napes
and prune the vines in oddly shapes
to laugh, to cry, to sing once more
and soak in waters they once adored

What whispered words
linger on our longing lips,
they go unsaid at the hands
of our fingers tips.
These touches talk like old friends,
o’ how familiar
the conversation feels,
even after all these years.

Undress your formal tongue
and we will speak with the slang
we spoke when we were young,
when our bodies were still foreign,
even to us.
We were explorers consumed
not by god, glory or gold
but by lust.

So if we must speak
let it be with our skin pressed,
hot breath on sweat glistened *******,
biting at the napes of our necks
and fingernails breaking flesh.
In the morning we may regret
but we're both here because
we cannot forget.

I promise
this is not a reconciliation,
this is only ***.

I try to get a grip of time
But I keep making love to a man that will never be mine
I caress more than his mouth
And he moans without doubt
Timely shadows of ecstatic instruments hit the wall
Until the clock strikes the end of it all..
  
Tobacco candies between my burnt lips
As he brush my many napes with his fingertips
Probably thinking about that girl he has deceived  
And just before he leaves
I Stifle the tears that i'll never be the queen on his deck
And he leans forward to give me a peck
     And nothing more
     After all, as he once said; i'm just his *****...

-fir.m

a lynch-man
in the Tennessee hills
had run out of hanging thrills
so he decided
to travel
a few hundred miles
crossing the border
into Arkansas
with his new hemp ropes
at the ready
he sized up
the governor's and his spouse's
necks
saying nonchalantly to himself
what the heck
then over the highest branch
he flung the noosing strings
and corralled
the wicked corrupt two
into an inescapable pen
round their napes
he placed
the stricture of the knots
which he'd pulled
very tight
and said farewell
saying to them
hang on
I'll be back later
to see how you're both fairing
on his slow return
Bill and Hillary
were silently gagged