Ce Soir

I want to write
Until my fingers burn off
And the urge to love disappears

But what if motion and light are not the only lovers?

Sitting alone and pondering the depth of the ocean
Does it end or is there a sandy bottom?
Please, I don't want discomfort
Just thick smoke
And candy canes on Christmas morning

Six Pack of Pilsner

I wish you could read me
As a young girl reads Jane Austen

Hope filled. L-
ife is one big quest for the penis
to meet the vagina.

Maybe true love
is large dextrous hands
Coupling with nimble minds

Scotch : Mouth to Mouth

The late night mulled wine mouth speak
Youth is composed of tender moments
Tough as alligator skin
Fitted together like tooth paste ads

If you can understand this
Then the smoke isn't thick enough
The love isn't deep enough
The whiskey isn't strong genoug

Language is testy if you are a lover
Spoken words are hand testimonies
Kisses the expression of subconscious desires
Such as, Let's have sex and scream

I want to write about breakfast
But I hate pancakes and bacon
Too much flour and the whiteness between taste
Leaves coffee on my tongue
Urine in the porcelain toilet basin
Unresolved sexual exploits

Cash, Vanity

This frigid wind of dependancy.

This single-minded self indulgence.

So I become - three headed suicidal monster
Light a match to light a cigarette
Take a breath to take a step

Square zero and counting downwards
Into the non-existence of negative numbers.

A Ripe Shrug of Shoulders

Isn't there just something
About people
Their faults

And giant craters in the moon
Known as lakes

My soul is swiss cheese
Truth a melon baller.

Dead Skin on Skin

Connect the dots
Between the moles and scars
Between the dust, the light
The Earth and Mars

Between the thighs, the moon
The apple breasts
Cool morning, night-time, noon

I Am Too Often Ashamed at My Own Honesty

I'm driving a wheelbarrow
Into a narrow crevasse
And the red paint is chipping
The wheel is loose

Honesty pains me more than silence
The wisdom of severed tongues
Uphill towards the landfill
I am struggling to empty feelings

This shielded cage protects lies
Feeds on my inability to be unloved
Must we all through the mud struggle?
I cry for the day that dancing died.

Driving

This is the silent moment
When all others become puzzle pieces
Snug together underneath pancake blankets

We just stare at each other
Smile a little and dip our fingers into pondering
Is it right to want something wrong?

You hide under night sky and single stars
Hands over steering wheels, breasts, back
The sun is a tiny light in my imagination

Selfish start to honest relations
Do I love the moment or the forearms?
Slender deer leads hawk to water

When I Die, the Angels May.

In nakedness I find a penny
And, shinning, pick it up.

The leaves begin to bud and dangle
Tempting to touch the cotton ball sky
Reaching.

So this is the miracle of morning,
the day's own re-birth, night's
Mourning.

Bare to the world, do I not belong?

The Color of Beer in Snow

(You are not magical)

Not in this moment
In others, yes,
painstakingly.

Perhaps I just feel alone,
Working the world to tender palms
Clasping at textured straws

You are heart-wrenchingly undefineable

... not magical.

A Study in Nature and Man

I'm finding self-doubt and dust
Cluttered somewhere close to the left ventrical.

Among the dry grasses and high mountains
Among the growing leaves and rushing wind

Lust is a funny thing, isn't it?
Denial an ulcer

Among the singing trees and bold sun
Among the water droplets and heaven's face

Oreo Church

The reverent prayer
is useless to masturbators and pedophiles

Someone always seems to quote
"Can we deny our baser instincts?"

But what if the bottom is the barrel
and quarreling dulls to nonchalance?

So, I touch...my...self?
In some sort of pleasure that transcends description
Some sort of ice cream sandwich in August.