She's naked because she loves you..
                           but
You love her because she's naked..

You tell me that love
Is for the hopeless,
That pounding hearts
Are for the loveless.
You tell me that pressing
Your cheek against mine
Would bring forth
A singularity
That would **** us both in,
Only to disassemble
With age what we felt
Lay under an everlasting day.
You say the moon
Is too frightening for your eyes
To see. But darling,
If only you would
Cherish night, you would
See that roses are just as beautiful
In darkness as in light.

Something about the way we relate to each other -
Doing 80 down opposing ends of the same grand highway, strung out in shades of purgatory and sunset, listening to the hymns our fathers taught us before they stopped believing, imagining how easy it used to be to get lost and never be found again, back before they had us by the throats every moment waking or sleeping, this is the kind of thing I live to romanticize,
When we used to talk about Howl you said it lived within me, in the back of my throat desperate to escape into something larger, and when you used to write poems I always wanted to leave the room, there have always been things I couldn't put to words, and yet I still can't stand to leave things undiscussed,
I couldn't give winter the dignity of a graceful death, always listening for the first breeze of spring and falling asleep before things pick up,
And dreaming of a freedom from all of this context; the world has always been big enough without you, and once you bet me I couldn't out run the setting sun knowing full well this is the only fight I have left to lose, and I have yet to accept that responsibility.
In the end everyone has the same question for everyone else, and everyone has the same answer phrased differently:
I wanna
I wanna
I wanna be adored
I need to
I need to
I need to be adored

In the distance, outside the door to
your basement, a crowd
la-la's
the Star Spangled Banner.

All swirl-eyed, and promising water,
a circled-hiss, a lie.
Fox-headed, and painting Old Glory
onto his chest, to the amazement
of even the millionaires.

In a dark room, eyes roll back,
towards Wellesley. Eternally, hung
on the wall. The
patriarch, shaking the hands of
your grandfather.
Dreaming of the
late 1960s.

The mountain, surrounded by
clouds.
The Gods throw bolts, and
fireworks, at-You, through the
television set.

From the cinder, on the lawn,
of a house, on-fire and crumbling,
the kids
are catching flame.

And if all goes as planned then
the bonfire's a beacon,
we're not going anywhere.

We are the rocket's red glare.
Garnering hope from those
driving to work.
Hitting the light switch, to
see the results.
Trying to look for America.

Bernie 2016

You smell like rain
kissing dry earth. Your
magnificent torso rises
over buttocks I want
to sculpt. Your skin is softer
than cocoa butter and I am

lost. In your eyes, I see
stories. In your taste, I forget.
The rhythm of your heartbeat
lulls me to safety. But
will you stay to steep
the tea? Or halve my pills?

Everywhere is mulch and moss.
And fog and despair. But I come
back to the smell of rain.
And wait
for the sun to shine.