“I love 
the taste
Of someone else’s wine
On your lips and your cheeks. 
You crave the tang of iron
And ichor
On mine.”

im soft right now

and part of me wonders

will you love me when im no longer soft

when my muscles shift and my hips get bony

will you tell me to put on a few pounds

put some meat on my bones

when im no longer a soprano or even an alto

will you tell me my voice is too loud and booming

that i should speak softly

when hair blankets my body like moss on a stone

will you tell me my kisses hurt you

that if i dont shave every day its too itchy to bear

will my body be the end of us

i hope not



because under enough blankets my hips wont poke you

and after enough lullabies everything feels quiet

and with enough beard oil anything is soft enough to kiss

I lay still as if I were a breathing corps.
My heartbeat reminds me I still live.
My mind wanders aimlessly;
It drifts in and out of the borders of valid conception,
and withers to its content.

Am I alive,
or waking from a prolonged dream?
These thoughts contradict my understanding of this world.
They break the grips of my reality,
and plunge me into the unknown.

Although the notion tinges a world of fear.
My perspective shifts;
My consciousnesses fades away
and is vibrantly replaced
by a wave of blissful euphoria.

This is a strange existence.
Time is irregular;
It means nothing here.
Days seem like seconds;
minutes seem like weeks.

O' to what a mishap,
a folly happenstance,
a fringe to conventionality.
To who or what pleasure
do I owe?

Part of me wishes to leave this place.
Albeit a part wishes to remain.
I am in love with this realm,
yet I know there is somewhere else
that I must be.

So now I set sail
to find the world that I came from;
with a pleasant gift from the one I left.
                   I look upon an old existence,
                                             with new eyes.

in a rather more living language
form frames function, I think we,
should we agree,
may make waves or points proving
science is good.

Clipped from: http://www.thenewatlantis.com/publications/the-unbearable-wholeness-of-beings

If you try to describe the living processes of the cell
in a rather more
living language
than is typically found
in the literature of molecular biology —
if you resort to a language
reflecting the artfulness and grace,
the well-coordinated rhythms,
and the striking choreography
of phenomena such as
gene expression,
signaling cascades, and
mitotic cell division —
you will almost
certainly
hear mutterings
about your flirtation with
“spooky, mysterious, nonphysical forces.”
You can expect to hear yourself labeled a “mystic” or —
there is hardly any viler epithet within biology today — a “vitalist.”

a rose by the hour
floral shower
florid stain

the waxy lip
(incarnadine)
blooms for the sweet
and fragant touch

of
that young lily

iced and white
with blushed insides
and forbidden
fruit.

there is a timeless tale
within those pearls
within that smile

of youth

pulchritude

purity.

there is a quintessential
romance
beneath that lust
(that noisome desire)

heart beating and breaking
and pulsating and

suffocating

the light from the room
and the gold from the sun
and the bud
from her mother.

dulcet petal
browned
and grotesque
posioned by
romantic unrest
yet


a rose by the hour

floral shower

florid

stain.

The way my name wraps around his mouth
is the same way I've wrapped my mouth
around him, 100 times, probably more, I stopped keeping track.

What do I have to change?
                             everything
          nothing

And we have been down this road, with its curves and twists, at least 100 times, maybe less, I stopped keeping track.

And I fail to squash it every ******* day, but I will never not miss him. Never not hear his laugh in my dreams.

What do I need to work on?
                             everything
            nothing

Happily ever after seems far away.

My dad is an enigma
He’s getting older but is
Healthier than guys 30 years younger than him
I’m convinced it’s because he drinks white wine from sun up to sun down and is performing a ritual of slow embalming

And his fridge has an assortment of salad dressings and Clamato juice
That were good in 2008
And he eats it saying
“It’s fine, best by dates are just marketing”

And god ****** if he doesn’t wake up kicking and content every day

A solid mass of boxed wine and 6 year old salad dressing
All over confident opinions and ***** jokes
Feeding foxes kibble in the backyard
Feeding his dogs liverwurst and chocolate ice cream
Crying in front of strangers at documentaries about people in countries he’s never been to

An obelisk of weirdness in a sea of pale mediocrity

And he’ll let you know
He wouldn’t want to be any other way.

If you've never pressed a gun barrel against the side of your head
It feels like
A dime or a quarter (depending on the caliber) that you put
To rest in a freezer
It's always cold
It could have been sitting in a car baking in a
Humid Pennsylvania July or the
Harsh southern sun
But it always feels like you've pulled it out of a freezer
And it always feels like its been made to sit in your hand
Pressed against your head.

I had a sick thought the other day
That I'd put that cold barrel to my head and pull the trigger
And the gun wouldn't go off
The hammer would fall and the cylinder would rotate and I
Would have a story:
"Imagine if it would have gone off!"

It's a weird self serving fantasy
Some otherworldly power saving me
Me admiring a primer that was dented but unfired
Putting it on a chain and wearing it around to say
"I'm serious, it could have gone off!"
And people would say
"Wow, he's deep, he feels things, he know what pain is"

But the truth is
We all know what pain is
In one form or another
Whether it's a inattentive parent
A drinking problem
A stressful job
Or no job at all
A spent shell casing
Or believing that your
Life is worth saving.

In reality
There would be no dented primer
No necklace
No veil of pain and deeper understanding

It would be my brains as a greasy stain over the
Poor paint job of my apartment
A screaming fiance
A job that would scold my absence until someone called them
And told them that the primer was fine
The life was over
The position was open.

It's odd
To weather some of the hardest things in life
But a minor slip up or mistake
Can make you fantasize about it being over
It's the minor inconveniences that make
The abrupt ending all the more appealing
Like wind rustling a dead leaf from a
Barren branch.