Creamy

she brandished boobs and

half open eyes equally

wondered about

age

she licked me

she liked looking

I called her butterscotch

and she wanted

to swallow me

Crossed legs and sweating

"I hope you get everything you wanted, boy,
hope you conquer the world 
and turn it into your toy,
but don't come crying 
when you learn the truth..."

he twisted his fist
and stretched my nipples.
his lips sharply cornered
and teeth purpled.

the hint of blood dripping,

terror and suggestions,
I feel like his breakfast.

should I be sharing this
or hiding my shame and my
ugly desires?



my breakfast is porn and
crossed legs
and sweating
and cumming alone
and ignoring women
and not eating
and thinking

this needs to end
and this
feels good
and maybe I should respond...

but I didn't.

I just did the ooohing and the aahing
because I didn't know any of the real words.

Down a little bit

young and sad
which you are not supposed to be
while still angry and awkward
like most are mostly

watching how other things fly



the broken bottle
breaks against your brittle walls

each shard spitting light


perhaps meaning
you might bleed and
find
some
fucking
release

thinking this
singing

try it again
try it again
try it again

he's got a bug in his eye

he's not weeping

without shadow

I see that wave
of her hair and
think
Winter is still there
in her eyes I
believe
we have never met
and she is the love
she is the dark drain
the spark
she echoes
across time and
an Ocean away she
writes to me
wondering what ifs and
whens
I wonder
what would I not sacrifice
for this woman
my Diana

and you make me

nice cold opening
of a clipped quirky song

an Irish backbone
informs a Northwestern sense

a little beer hall
a little polka

an accordion
that seems Southern
and Southwestern

praising the moment like a prayer
and a sudden ending

that's soulful 
sweet

with her sexy throaty voice
that feels fleshy 
electric

telling you she's a woman that wants to 
love love love you

she would like to 
tango

singing of bones

glam bounce
and 80's 
art 
pop
and one metal rimmed finish

leads to a sea shanty chorus
then strum strum 

you sing

a familiar female part
in this

girl

group

dessert
indie
pop

at the prom

pass out

belly

this fucking song 
creeps up
on me

with the Angel Of Harlem horns

the tweaked distant voice

the open chords of the twelve strings strong

the celestial slide of the trombone

the crap tinny 
one room 
sound 

at the end

the bit with the improvising horns

I'm not sure what the story of this song
is but I am sure there is one

inspired by an inspirational speaker

what percentage 
of those that work 
at inspiring 

are honest?

just a sliver.

hope as a profession

is mostly for liars

and people
waiting

to be violent.

Say it again again again

she wants to meet me knowing
that I have always fucking
loved her and she says
no expectations
because we're older
and I think
BULLSHIT
no expectations
just
gives you that
back door

that keeps me loving you
that keeps me begging you

with unspoken practices
and emotional blurring

I used to type until daylight
and then
curl up next to her

the junkyard next door
at dawn
looked like
new secrets
like
promises

after bone ridden nights
tapping keys and feeling
her
curl up
sleeping and smiling
against
me

it felt like a dirty secret
and it might be

Not once, not twice

he gave me his card and called himself DR. RAY
he wanted a discount on his wine
and for the bartender to make his woman

(HIS WORDS)

a key lime gin rickey
and serve her

a serious
but not too heavy Cabernet

it made me feel real but off-center

        

she tied my right hand to the rented bed

before she bit me and made me bleed

Sunday to Tuesday was defined by teeth

she used me as a rock

to rub her rope against

I remember saying please

then 

her husband asking me to explain

she said
that neither of us was noble 

but only she was insane

he came back later

drenched and wanting to pay his tab

he said 
he needed to pray for patience 
and it seemed
like violence
was trickling down his spine

Gospel compilation

she was Dutch
which I took to mean
a few things

and she wondered why God
was everywhere in the South

a Church every few blocks
people ask about your beliefs

in the 21st century
still thinking we should all be tied to the teat
of JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, SUPERSTAR, ESQUIRE, ETC.

Fuck
does anyone know why?

Fear of the other and the need for
simple defining of each other and all that
SHIT?

You tell me, outsider.

I'm from here 
and I still say
'God bless 'em' 

and have other
Judeo-Christian ballast
for my thinking.

I still struggle with the snake
before I sleep.

There's still a bit part of me that thinks
those without any God
are wrong and weak and not trustworthy...

Help me think out of this
please.

Jesus shines and he makes me blink.

Frost

You might have heard and it's true

I'm an ass

and I like to show off the bruises that this picture hides

which might be pretty or sexy

or just more exhibitionist ass

but inside it's that path I took in early life

strewn with dead leaves and toys and bodies

forgotten and rotten and sweet



you forget

my dirty feet were never on your floor

and your door was open when I left

nothing hidden

nothing less but

the blood on the windowpane might be a sign

that nothing was right

...and going

she asked about death and touched my
grey
eyes

the irony was too much and she left
coughing

what a hack
we laughed

we rubbed the rest of my feeling
into her skin

creamy white
thing

she chose me despite the warnings

all the drippings leading to my sudden
end

it's not like this every morning
it''s not without foreboding

you moved my flesh to the inevitable end
and I was puctuation

That seeking sinking feeling

she offered herself as siren. after, she tried to be
rough seas,

at one point, she mentioned international waters
and no rules.

she laughed when I said I was
a smooth sailor.

then.
later,

a picture of her half-naked in front
of a mirror

without words.

am I a traitor for thinking?
silence is better.

when I am out of town and napping

twice daily

it feels like healing
and earned
but then I come home

curl my body into a ball

clinging to pillows
wrapped in a 
sweaty blanket
I forgot to wash

before I left

less like rest
still the same
damn discontent



this is the truth i tried to forget
these are the shapes I must find to make the pain lessen 

my life as origami

my hope is 
that one day

hope 
will be 
unnecessary

'the edge of my desk'

we'd flirted via msg
text
comments
and we'd laughed
and wondered
and she wanted
a call
and late and
drunk
I called
feeling the weight
of voices
without the preferred
precision
of the written

I panicked

my insecure
wrinkles
made me laugh
and stutter
and withdraw

I wish I could say

trust the page
the screen
the column 
and I would

if

I wasn't such
a careful curator
of binary things

if only

the log-in
was all of me

Let your hair down, lady in the tower

Heavy-eyed, typing
too late. All that
inspiration from earlier,
gone. Let's be
straightforward then.
I know 
both of us long for old times.
Freedom, foolishness,
freefalling. Its easy to forget
every sweaty morning spent
trying to forget last night's
anonymous kiss
or the newest shitty
relationship our families
want to forget- now,
while it may be
fragile
at least its real. While I unconsciously
tap my fingers on her neck,
stopping short
her breath
with kinesthetic intimacy,
it all feels like a fairy tale. Remember
though
sometimes, its a cautionary one...

no telling

she burned her hands
on my thigh,

it was nice like ice
in my eyes.

her grip was titanic.

she could have avoided
sinking,

but she wanted to be wet,

and tragically
like comedy
 
she is.