there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.

things ain’t real out here. just fake.
the amber gasp of a slow meme in a chamber
of your last laugh.
every day that records your release from a nightfall
is a jot in a book that a worm
was reading… to the dead.

your love has taught me things that have no god.
taught my circle how squares are corners
without everyone.
a lovely bit of chance in the dis-truly random.
a game on a plate at a banquet of
fruitless antics.

i walk on the moon as you walk on my face
like a Russian at rest on a self-interest
eating a dynasty of “what next? “
i keep nothing but a slavery
in my war chest….
but you

keep nothing
at all.

sometimes the burning is an ordinary thing.
a Fahrenheit so low that Hell looks up
to refute the Sky you want.
and the dead wings
you use.

there are doors that baffle keys
and there is a God.

My love made you the opposite
of exactly what love wants…

from me.

a wholesome sun broods in the wake of day
and the hum of too many jewels is the mad honey
on your lips… where parakeets shriek with delight
as common as an always.
i see the eclipse of my sorrow as stark a lightning dark.
i keep spelling my name with a “ Q “
because why not?
there are no humble kisses
but only one life...
to believe in
til you mean
it.

sane. what is sane, now that the impossible
is all I want? where can I go to be less in love?
where can i not be there but inhabit a true
ghost of my fond wish on the tip
of an absolute sadness?
the way i want to love is more than you know.
the fever in my bones is all weakness
focused on you.
I assume you have no commonplace
to be weird from as I do.
and the reason i worry for the ****** of our ascent
is how we dive into nothing
like we were meant for it.

i have a cat and she leaves me... to think -
about petting too many suns.
she has no clue how much i **** myself
to live with you.
and no sympathy
when I’m wrong.
only the fur of an oblique beast
and a dead camera.

with beautiful eyes.

so…

the way i want to love
is to get on with it.
to lean into the surge
and be lovely as flesh
wants it.
to bloom where
the vague things conjure
and the night things know
your name.

to love
where our secrets are always
nothing but the Truth
on display.

I never dance now.
I endure my story like a kite.
I float where the wind is old.
I succumb to the beauty
Of my inner swan…
And look for you.

I never laugh now.
I chortle in the dark
Like a loon, hitting -
a rock with my head.
more gone than usual things
but here all along
Longing for technique
in a soft joke.

coming apart in public.
as demure as tomorrow
with every day as marginal
as a wisp of Joy.

departed.

Loneliness is the shape of me.
The hour of my yawning lapse
and the entirety.
I collapse when I swell.
My wings are sky skin
flaking.

My open eyes… awake
sleeping.

My orbits are without Sun.
And my moons
without you.

undone.