A Long Walk Down 32 Stale Carpeted Stairs Covered...
you say i feel too much honey i want to feel your teeth one by one the meat you’d have left for me and the balls of your feet i feel too much as they knead the scratches on my back in our queen with the little pillows you could huddle obscene when he was out of town and i part the pages with ears full of sand to whisper i’m sorry that i feel too much and i want to be your man.
god rest ye merry junebugs
when the cream of the moon melts and stains my peach skin when I speak to the faces of my peers as if they were mirrors when your human scent and fresh laundry becomes the alchemy of familiarity and the caterpillars around your eyes settle softly when their feet cease marching and when men and women of yesterday slip over the stout ledges of...
and cheeseburgers for free
as i stuffed my mouth with her home-cooked meal i knew it would bind together deep inside me like a celtic knot or a synapse in the brain like a memory made to be remembered if not forgotten already completely and yet all i was thinking was why are my bones so brittle and does one ever really get over the hunger and life never really does come full circle does it and cheeseburgers for...
though you could hear a hurricane hurrying through the sonnet i gave to you that night, those countless glances stolen from the air like fireflies captive in a jar, those endless hours perched in dark closets, showers with the lights turned off, everything turned off and all the blinds closed everything i said i meant, and through your mumbled responses i tried with the breath of my...
How is your new bartender? Does he have a heavy pour? Or is he gentle and light? Do his garnishes add light and vibrant colors to your daily haze? Is his oak side manner something to be desired? Does he make the fizzes giggle with decision? Or is his style more splash and tire? Does he sloppily toss olives into your shallow glass? Does the carbonation rise above the triple distilled memory of shit...
stop and smell
if it’s not wrong of me to stop and smell the roses (and what a good year it was for them) why do i feel demolished when i pull my vehicle over to envision what once was considered grand architecture in a world past maybe i am unable to believe there was a certain craftsmanship that made beauty form and content follow (or was it the other way around) WHO CARES it’s still gorgeous...
blue bird bus depot
oh yes one more thing about los angeles is that it harbors your heartless corridor of a chest and it does it lovingly when you cry weakly like some dirty little baby who will scrape knees all the way to the sky and maybe when you get there you can truly love and try and this other thing is that it rains here all the motherfucking time and i know they’ve told you many lies about beaches and...
it must have been hard to let saigon fall
i have drafted so many emails in the past three days patiently waiting for a tet offensive that hopefully never comes the pacifist in me won’t deploy the troops they’re not ready for guerrilla warfare yet after all that was sacrificed i found it difficult to conclude withdrawal the only valid option so i swallowed my pride i’ve written the orders for my battalion of soldiers to...
I will remember summers like these
thick air wanders around the room like the fingers of a lover lost at sea. this is not a long-distance plea. this is not my heartbeat tapped out over telephone wires like primal morse code. this is not a half-familiar dirge to the half-remembered. is this the way it ends, i wonder, as the earth fills this watery grave? polite smiles and the slow rot of my mumbled oaths like rustily...
lake lucid lovers, pt. 3.
You can bang your fist against the headboard and the mattress can squeak and the room can be eerily silent but I can tell by the way your shoulder blades dance and trample on the foot of your hair and how the tooth in the right corner of your smile comes out to play that you’ve never been so glad to feel alive.
last night i found myself drinking water from a river i always knew existed but thought had dried up as much as i could drink (which is to say enough) i always found there was more in my glass than i wanted while my parched mouth was of a Taliesin in August quality only sloshing gulps of falling water could quench my thirst there was a ticking sound in the distance not unlike a lonely...
firecracker popsicle mornings
what is it that happens july 3rd when you spend its night outside under a mound of fleece blankets and long branches and you find that there are limbs fleshy digits dirty fingerprints that are not your own do you scratch your scalp and shake your head as if searching for empty change now...
In some artparty scene she brayed barely nineteen with stilettos and a give-a-fuck lean pausing the room to be illuminated and carelessly dragging an empty bottle of wine. When the mermaid set free with shoulder length aqua-marine her campfire creaking notes felt mean eye-smiling shark-like through floorboards of cross-legged men with faces like twine. In the hallway or slouching mezzanine a...
Parted through a fern and trellis I cut cool morning summer air with my knives eyes and saw for the fullest minute a stranger moving muscles to tie her sweaty hair into a sloppy bun in front of what could have been her mother’s full length mirror like the one my mother had with a swivel and I saw her guests arrive downstairs without her notice, and the hair tied up to keep herself together...