Infinite.

Like how many times you can take a picture,
with your mind,
of we intertwined.

Like three chords.
Your pick.

Like each idea becoming a suggestion,
an open ended request,
like the innocence behind "inquisitive"
that is lost in "inquisition".

Like the questions I mean to ask you,
but I'm not sure you'll be listening
at that moment in time.
Stopwatch.
Dewdrop.

Like how I mean to hold
you
r hands
r heart
you.

Like the limit of the tangent of x as it approached y.
I want to curve
and parenthesize around your body.
We will diverge.
We are inverse.
We are combustable.

My my my
how time has flown
fully grown
cities living organisms
concrete equivalent to soil
buildings burst through the layers
windows errupt
beautiful
slower
wind in grass blades
everglades
marshes of alligators
chomping at nobody
publicity stunts
running for president
he shall be
doing
so grand a guy
sweet, heat
low and usually
a bit
timid
nevertheless
combustable.

We called him Kansas because he reminded us of open spaces,
but we should have called him nothing at all.
He had a last name but we didn’t bother to learn it,
something all-American, midwestern and bland.
He had no hometown but a drifter’s restlessness in his limbs.


Kansas had a girl called Daisy-May, which wasn’t her given name.
It was said that she could charm the rattle out of the snake,
and we never knew if that was a a good or a bad thing.
Daisy-May reminded us of the Forth of July, all sparklers and rocket pops,
Cut-off shorts and bottles of whiskey.  She crackled like a firework display.


Our town overflowed with them, we were too small, too pure,
and they were too combustable. Daisy-May was as mean as they come,
and Kansas was ugly in the same way that Saturday nights are.
Knowing him was like being drunk past midnight, alone and walking
home past ***** neon and watching the stars pass you by.  


Every teenager in the county awoke at the moment of impact,
the night Kansas drove his car through that barn on route 20.  
We flocked like pilgrims to touch the twisted metal of the guardrail.
We followed the dead grass tire marks like the yellow brick road.
Daisy-May was lovely as ever laid out in white like the ****** herself.

On nights when it’s so dry that our skin turns to dust and blows
away, we think of Kansas and Daisy-May and how they caught fire.
Patron saints of our frustration, desperation, too ugly to be real.
Bottle rockets on the Forth of July. Shot from some lonely road
to explode lights in the sky, to blot out the stars for a moment, then die.

Sometimes
the burning
is so powerful
that I
might as
well be
tied to a stake
like the pagan
wise-women of yore
mistaken for witches
no dousing
with gasoline
necessary
for the inside
is already so
slick with
simmering
flammability
combustable
liquids
that trickle
down my thighs
into the earth
and create dark steam
that turns into light
as its luscious
vapor rising
from my being
Soon I will
simply evaporate
and become
atmospheric
ether floating
up towards
stars
and raining
love down
into the
tender receptacle
of your
being

I wish to be set ablaze and reborn from my own ashes
not only to start over, but so that the old me
can be as forgotten as the soot, lining chimney walls.
They say burning to death is the most painful way to die
yet still I fantasize about it, being encased in a pyre like cocoon.
yearning, like a caterpillar
for the solitary weeks in its own personal prison
knowing that weeks of whitewashed walls
will lead to open doors over flowing with brilliant color
But unlike a caterpillar, my current life is not black and white
I can not prepare to start over by hiding
So I look for all of the ways to ignite
I start with my outsides
the polish on my toe nails,
the perfume that leaves my skin smelling slightly
more like antiseptic than vanilla,
my hair spray coated curls -
its all flammable
But it does not work,
the new me will not be kindled by the light
reflecting on retinas of strangers or friends
So I move inward
looking for change in the bottom of a shot glass
swallowing hard, I down enough whiskey to
make a grown man cringe
my blood and even breath become combustable
but still nothing, so I try to force the flame in
Inhaling smoke, exhaling my good decisions
the capillaries in my lungs scream
but I breath deeper, pull harder, bringing the ember
on the end of the joint closer to my lips
They are still moistened by the liquor
surely there is enough alcohol to catch fire
Still my efforts leave me frozen,
So I try to submerge myself into heat
I become a heat seeking missile
desperate for a warm body to cling to
I retreat to sweat soaked basements of frat houses
pressing myself into generic nameless men
hoping that, if I can't absorb their warmth,
I can at least use them to fill up the holes in my plan  
But the friction of skin on skin, hands on thighs,
warm breath on my neck,
it still isn't enough.
The kind of heat I need can't be found
in a bottle or on the lips of a stranger
or beneath the dusty floorboards of this city.
I don't know where I will find it,
and I don't know how long it will take,
but I do know one thing,
I will be incendiary.
All it takes is a spark.

Deceived by tar
Restless in wax.
I'm solidified.
Used, stained and charred.
Life burns it's flame ever near.
Relentlessly.
Inevitably in wax or suffer exposed inferno.
What kind of a choice is that?
For a tissue man?

Admirer
Bending an ear towards me whenever I'm not nibbling at its lobe's corners and curves
When not immune to those getting on her nerves,  I stand by to provide aid
And she identifies me like a civil servant
As if we've never pressed hearts against chests like slogan pins to vests on solid gold ground, moving to the Brazilian sounds
And I'm OK with that
Because enemies will never share happy and trying times
Instead of vying to undress like the wolves in sheep's clothing they are
I be the confidant carrying remarkable odds
For her, I'll be that sparkling glass
Bottling her tired feet into my palms
With her daily dilemmas facing my vanguard and rearguard
Ain't no turning back, though
So
When the amicable is willing
And the admirable is able
The come-together will be combustable
Flammable with touch
Quaking with kisses
And friend becomes familiar like
I'm alright with being not "more than just"
Even as it is inevitably less in her heart's defense
Because I'm vehemently against breaking trusts, I must not venture.
Lust is short a few dollars to make sense of costly cares.
I'm well-aware we may never go there.
At this juncture, puncturing promises puts pressure on partners and mates
When dates are no longer sweet as Medjool
And everybody plays the April fool
No exception to the rule of thumb
As fierce flames of friendly fire must be iced numb.
The instant she concedes, I will not succumb.