Friday, December 4, 2015

I can't remember

She called you little baby
You named her your buttinsky
She said I love you
You said I need you
You said I'm eating whipped cream to fight the loneliness, want to
come over? want to
sleep over? I need you
I need you
I need you
I need you
She asked do I have to wear clothes?
You said no.

The picture you texted me that night,
the picture of your face
that I love, that I said Aww, hello there love I miss you
she must have read my mind
because she, too, she said, Aww, hello handsome I miss you.

And I cant remember
if hearts break
from hypertrophy or fail
because they are weak.


I miss you here

I miss you here, you
a thousand shards of light,
while I bottle up rainbows--
the energy condensed will explode

your love is a windup clock,
I turn the gears, synchronize
my needs with your highs,
curb my cries on your lows

when your drink is bourbon on ice,
my drink is your coming
and leaving

to silence.

(anodyne 10/25)

promise of the end

I would like to welcome death,
hang a banner on my door,
prepare a feast,
write a poem
for an old friend whose forgiveness I seek.
But I am afraid to tell you,
afraid that you will be afraid
to see the gentle promise
that death brings.
Because I can love you
and leave you at the same time,
this life in which I do not fit
 there isn't enough time
to dig up all the dirt in my garden
to pay back the debts I owe,
the loves I needed and destroyed
the bodies I touched and breathed in and touched and breathed in again every time
 I work my fingers deep into the earth,
this life of coming
what's wrong with leaving
this world
at once too much and insignificant?
I leave it each morning
I get to wake up with you,
each night with the cool breeze moving
through the windows,
 across a sky so dark space
is just the beginning,
what a relief
when time stops counting in days
stops being lost or wasted
on measures of things.
instead it just is. and I just am
together we exist until
we don't. that is death's gentle

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Your love is

Your love is a fun house,
where bodies of myself are tied
to a bed post, begging
to be spanked, they crawl over each
other, they
dance in furry skins and purr
like cats.

Your love is a
vibration. It assaults my senses with
your absence,
           my absence,
on hot muggy days it runs
from Chapel Hill to Milwaukee,
Ashville to St. Louis,
Oklahoma City to
Madison to Boston to
everywhere but Chicago,
                      I am
                a superb

(t minus two weeks) (7.8.15)

Sunday, March 22, 2015

The way to my heart is open

(for t)

I found you on 2nd street of Walkers Point,
between the backseat of my car and the dark alley of an empty parking lot,
where I come, again
without sex, without penis,
where you had me
bared myself without undressing myself,
all the time occupied by the memory of your touch
your voice
the way you hover over me,
moan baby into my ears
and your fingers dig deep,
as if you can reach my heart
from below.

Keep reaching, love.
The way to my heart is open.