Your love is a bloody knee fighting into the ladies room.

Blinking blindly with your open skin,
so wet and cold
but you can't find the right door
and now you're thrown into a corridor of
swampy broken stalls,
filled with greased and
swampy broken solicitors,
and no one,
no one
even has a god damn roll.

It made him a man with legs that turned and hands that gripped
Took him around the corner, towards the end it dropped us off
and he shakes
Made him a man with smooth turns and oil and work shirts in the trunk,
a lady by his side dressed and dancing with her new purse
Years ago it was his motorcycle and also
a car and all the neighbors spit and thought of
Jew money
Before, a man with keys in his pocket a wallet in the back
a pack of cigarettes but he quit and loves
us forever and here is this man in his bed asking his daughter where she’s been
since last month

if you can survive tonight I will give you the greatest chair
let you hang on my shoulder
keep close against my leg
i will clean you from the outside in

if you survive tonight your hands won't be torn off by that great white truck
i assure you
if you can survive tonight i will stick carnations into the thin of your skin

please survive the night
you can keep my feet warm if you'd like to

if you survive this night you won't have your ass punched
swiped into shit and muck and feathers and spit
keep tumbling for just this night
i can clean you from the outside in

Can't buy a post card at a bar

Christ,

he's been bombarded by three,

barraged by accusations of impropriety.

Nine days to

lay, find, sleep,

C

O

L

L

A

P

S

E ,

hunt for masked charms in all that dust.

august offers

"here, smell this..."

the heat rose up like a sugar fire

the heat came out and punched my rights

hairless and pink

soft, and juicy on the

inside

07.28.10

those shredders still haunt the air

dark, foreign,

near

a haunting deserving of bars and thorned black locks

skin, hair,

that dark corner under your bed

your bed

our bed

your bed

bed

sparked cardboard, my fingers

shred

early November '09.

back to when our dates were chaperoned and your hair waved long

over museum hand-held excuses, an ocean of bloody coral reef rippling, bubbling

between our new palms

under borrowed sheets, quietly testing their courage, circling

the swans you conquered that night by the bay

when i was less worried about old hearts,

better, then,

gentle, as how to best hold yours

07.12.2010.

cause games make us copy,

but this,

this,

this is all

us.

near bqe kitt.

Biting marijuana sweat off of Brooklyn boy pits,

Cat, I don't remember your name,

but I think your capable knee pads suit you fine.

"Bus Stop 3"

click.

click.

click.

click.

click.

click.

and she continued sitting on the ledge by the fence,

...

click.

unbending, click. click.

patient. click click click click.

pursing her bruised, click,

bloody, blue old lips.

early: because even lovers can't sleep.

there's a bitter taste of affinity to waking before the dawn has had it's chance to spill. you know you've been rejected because you have no shame in wailing out the pain. body like a heavy tank of polluted waste. energy like rotten milk clogged throughout your bones.

you moan. you moan hoping that your wretched limbs will take pleasure in the pain of assaulted stillness, although you are certain that even those screeching wings can't hear you. your own ears won't offer you tight grace.

your glands clamp up like a mocking bud. soft and hot, one drop from yielding. fingers now begin to flatten as you enjoy the skepticism of coil.

I thought I'd only have my inky pages and across the ocean connections. I never, ever thought I'd actually see those megaphone leaping rhino's right in front of me. Thank you, love. These few lines don't even begin to express the depth of my appreciation.

A few days short of half a year and I'm still in awe.

you sit there like a fool on jittery twigs, pants shamefully pulled down, hands too drunk to relieve your shame. one shoe flips open, slapping itself on the ground. revealed now is your stubby purple toe, bruised toenail grown out as if carnivals nag for entertainment.

you wear your hats too large. you keep your anxiety too cold.

h(ours).

embers trace blue as the streets

shoot themselves down four walls

surrounding arms surrounding

charms will blaze glitter over your head

so tight under heat and always long for me

like i have already left

you see how heavy we're crushing

the morning late.

revolutions and blushes.

"People where you live," the little prince said, "grow five thousand roses in one garden... yet they don't find what they're looking for...

And yet what they're looking for could be found in a single rose, or a little water...

And the little prince added, "But eyes are blind. You have to look with the heart."

hallucinatory fragments.

He pulled up towards me like a foreign dog. His protruding lower lip was duck-billed, too strange to suck. I pushed him away. Although he wanted all, I knew it wasn't his.

If muddy rivers had reflections, his white skin would be stained dull in the loftiness of its own bathwater. Speckled and absorbed into the surface, his battle marks left my face retracting over itself. In defense, my glance repeatedly resisted, crouching away from this suddenly staged reality.

Reminiscences of youth clawed at me like a bitter cat. Daring me. Awkwardly whirling fatal flirtations around my head.

Bull's Head, late November evening.

Leaning tall against the bar, to me his outline is brighter than any suspended halo. My eyes dance like two black balloons.

the ending loom.

It's like going back to when we wore our mothers shoes, clanking around to hear the chimes of our souls take beat against the crystal ground. China sets bottled in boxes licked with tape, peeling to be more than just ourselves.

Without warning to lift up our cups hot water pours over itself, leaving clumpy wet sugar sprawled out against the grids of our maps. Suddenly, as if everything wasn't really anything, we're taken. The lust for wings is surrendered. Like shapes that are torn by the sharp side of the moon we realize that even we can't be more than just stars. And not even the type that are drooled over by astronomers. As numbered bodies we will give off sapless balm, raped, under the sunset of our age.

resonating like an uncivilized drum.

can't wake up from a silent curve
since your stubbornly hip coconut dream
waves lapped in hood style against backyard cement that you
drum, drip, drink
me and my open milk
lungs in the slang of your car
like all those slow smoke pulls
shelled with bloody lips and remember when you said
you'd rather cut your eyes open
than to never
kiss me again.