You
wrapped
a constellation
around my finger;

in harmony,
told me
that
you loved me.

Now,
we wear
our wedding rings
molded out of
comets,
meteorites,
and asteroids

-- fragile enough
to accommodate
our fingers
but,
strong enough

to
ablated, choose

to
         fall
                  down
                                to
                                       Earth.

Lines drawn.
               Erasers
kept tucked in back pockets.
I'm circled. I'm shaded.
Smudged out,
separated.
You'll redraw the floorplan
schematics are changing
and I've
               got the handbook.
     regulations tossed out windward.
               Wearing out
all the reasons for more sensible feelings.
The seasons change fast here,
I'm sure you'll be leaving again.

               And you'll go
any place
that the latest squall takes you,
expecting I'm waiting.
But I've got blueprints of my own.

"Go anywhere you choose.
I won't care about the news."
The headline that I'm writing
and I wish that it were true.

So roll me up with the rest
of the shabby, used up trash.
Emptied cups and smoked-out butts.
All that's good has been unwrapped.
               I'm cellophane.

Life spans.
               Placeholders.
Not even a memory.
It's notched up. It's useless.
Refused
and ablated.
I'll toss out these blueprints.
**** all these schematics.
And you
               wrote the last word
     scrawled out in constructed language.
               Wearing out
every patience for these senseless intentions.
I'm fenced off. You flatter
yourself and you're leaving again.

               And I'll go
right back home
to my tiny apartment
where four walls await me.
But I still don't want you to leave...

...'cuz it's easy to believe
that you're beautiful beneath
these buzzy, dimming bar lights,
squinting through this hazy scene.

I've seen
               this one before.

I know the script
like the way to my front door.

But, with constructed language,
our meaning will languish.
And I'll fade back to static.
                                   Again.

Cry o'er this sadness
Refreshing red clay in the guise of granite
With pools of wrigglers , black tadpoles ,
water striders , afternoon of titmouse , bluebird and robin
Of lacewings and locust culled neath
the bounty of spring , lantern fly , mantid ,
field gnats riding turbulent April waves
O'er tin shack , pole barn and smokehouse
Barbecue pit , wood shed and well house
Hour of depression abated , of fragrant treasure
ablated* ...

People exist to make new people to replace the old people who have crapped out. People aren't here to have their genitals extirpated & ablated because there minds deny the reality of their generative organs.

Oh, Holy Jehovah I am elated with a devoid joy, for on the site of 1
surgically-ablated keloid, my God-gifted nose formed a fiery keloid

"Prey of Niger, A.D. 2072," excerpt: Fifteen tribesmen overtook my ***** *** after 5 miles. I was exhausted. I had no experience with desert extremes. The chief ****** said that I could sleep in his mud-hut mansion for an hour before they butchered me. He was pleasant enough, except for his cannibalistical zeal. In another life we could've got along like Siamese twin brothers, I guess.
      Swanky Negresses danced with their hoods ablated. I'd seen sails flapping in the breeze off the Horn, but this was fantastical, like pucked maidenheads shorn by tomahawks.

People aren't here to have their genitals extirpated & ablated because there minds deny the reality of their generative organs.