19

peeling sweet tarts and
sour straws from your finger
tips, saving them
for later to eat
with your delusion.

mixing narcotics with
a shot of gin for the
full effect of nothing-
ness and ecstatic
reverential illusion.

words go on and thus
go and continue to go
until they've landed on the
window sill
and started their
diffusion.

ubiquitous forgetting
about the state of your
everlasting and unfortunately
named
orgiastic confusion.

telling all the secrets
we've got kept inside our
lockers waiting
for the biblical announcement
for our physical
infusion.

tell me something though.

if i could tie a rope to the
winds of your tornado and
pull your safe-space into
my place,
would you give me
your entirety as a
monastic conclusion?

time has told me that
i hurt a little,
but you hurt a little
too; i'll do anything for
you, write anything for you
to
be my resolution.

i think it's why i'm not a
painter, see, for all the
youthful wonderings i could
art-ify are too hard to
find within the
skyscrapers of your
highly romantic
allusions.

jaunting

just like everything else,
it twisted up backward
and mistook me
for the martyr
and the lethal
undertaker
it had forgotten
without; or nothing
and no one
to promise the
pages to. I didn't ask

for anything;

they will give me
more and more

and more

like damns built backwards

until your skin becomes 

a sentimental interlude
to whittle
down the love into
you. Your
elegance
is understood
to be —
forever —
unmistakably
free.

Wednesday

I drank until you weren't real

and then I drank some more. 

The eyes of the kryptonite

(nothing like you)

nothing more temporal

nothing more true 

clean

Aflame/
holding out incarceration
fogging
for your reputation''''


|| indefinite ||
star struck for returning;
felicitous--
nearer to it than

you know.


Hydrate
and wash my remnants
away
so you can be clean.

Confessional

I had a confession for the Priest when I met him in the bar.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned”


I.

Its like the first night when
you were telling me
to kiss you without your words
and your lips were
sooooo close—
— you couldn’t
keep my
breath from loving
yours—
— and you told me
that i could
without saying it
and i did


II.
because
of
the stack of books
that june
afternoon
i thought
that this wasn’t what you
could have
wanted
as haunted as your
crystal eyes
had crystalized
into.


III.
i watch your fingers
and try to decipher
how they could’ve
pushed past my skin
right on in
and grabbed the
pulse
that thumps to
your name


IV.
apparently
when i’m drunk
i tell you what
you already know


V.
there were nighttime clashes
and crashes
where i thought you
might
disappear
without
what you wanted
to say
or i wanted
to hear


VI.
but you called me
like a river
and you held me
like a pause
because
it seemed to be you
might’ve seen
a cause


VII.
juvenile
the flowers rained
on us
while we writhed
soft blanket
singing nothing
of import
because
the ocean is
music enough
and
oh
have you got
a way
without
words.


VIII.
i would situate myself
on your shelf
for
ever
if you were
sub-limely
interested in
pressing
on
and
on

here's to hoping

heaving your
heavy
heavier
nothing left
but
never-er
little children
marking
hop-scotch on your trips

breathing your

breath

breathier 

nothing left

but 

ever-er

little no ones 

marking

nothing on my hips

levying your 

levy

levier 

everything 

yet

together-er

great big daydreams

marking

nightmares on your lips

as the clock hit

now

forever-er

i bit

big

bites on

endeavors or

made your words ecstatic 

and your mind erratic 

erotic enough

to tough out

and flush out

the bruises i've been 

pinching on your 

poker chips

i bet a thousand

on the hand

you'll deal me

when i 

rip 

into your

lips

sweet summer, kid.

Their lips were wet
and it was very
hot on the roof

and they were
not supposed to be there
all alone.

They were stoned
like the songs
said they should be.

And it was summer
and they couldn’t
help the way

their heat headed south.
Migrating for
the winter

time, antiquated and
reminding them
of their grandmother’s

doilies. Sticking
to the undersides of
skimpy skinny things

not quite ready to
make the leap they
were headed to.

Oops. I didn’t mean
to put that there
where it would

hurt you. But you
are being dramatic;
you can stop

screaming now. And
I think I hear your
dad’s door opening

downstairs. Does he
have a gun?
Gotta run.

And he’s gone
quicker than he had
come

which was pretty
fast to begin
with.