an expansion

i have decided (while drunk) to use this free time to update mysober-self and the world about my non-poetic thoughts. while not devoid of the marks of poesy, i, exuberant in "real" life, expect them to be as sexy (potentially) as intriguing (definitely) as intoxicating(ed) (slekrjgnlesrjngly) as my poetry.

"shoutouts to all the niggas that fuck with me, fuck you to all the bitches that dont fuck with me" -- weezy f baby.

hello, world

Saliva

One.

Ash tuft billowed, leading mischief-minded compatriots.

Luckily, unsuspecting larynx was coated.

Two.

Liquid glosses lips.

Rump roast betwixt beds of rose hips:

Here comes long pork.

Three.

Splotches leaked from orifice,

diagonal like a domino's:

remnants of my profile's presence

on sheets that would forget them.

Four. page letter,

scrawled, quickly sealed.

Five.

Lethal spray of certain lizards, from flickering,

forked tongue; enzymes rot flesh on contact.

Six.

Inch strand of lovéd mane

plastered to headboard, dreams.

By saliva of course.

muse

I lie on blank sheets,

their breadth unburdened.

that emptiness swallows.

The only useful mark

among detritus, I

am underwhelemed:

deftly placed semicolon,

no clauses to connect,

only the absent minded

strokes of the author--

two fork tines, aquafina

cap, salt deposits

(from tears, these),

the memory of your curve

around which my form

still curls in sleep.

In dreams i see

the imprint of drafts

tossed aside, novice

phrases erased for want

of a new set of syllables

with sexy facade,

longer legs, Latinate,

chosen for implication

of sultry viscosity

into which language might

swim, languish:

there I did marinate,

satiate variable appetites;

exotic verbiage challenged

grammatical alacrity, yet

I wanted for familiar subject.

II

I wish on elevens,

elevens with such symmetry-

eleven-elevens, exact,

multiple onenesses

singing octaves:

redo, redemption.

I wish on blue arteries

mirrored across wrist skin

buffered by lime green

fraying hair tie you gave me,

on palms' proximity.

I wish for fingers,

woven wicker knuckles,

mahogany and olive;

I wish

for 1 tsp. of clauses

within me cupped;

Moods of the Season

Last swallows leap

just after dawn;

the canopies they frequent

burst into flame.

The smoke contributes

cinnamon.

Pear, dogwood, maple

dipped into magma

headfirst, replanted.

Bruised sky echoes elegy

for tomorrow brings

a double-dip, deeper;

boldest boughs, now

nude, stand out: native antennae

forecast by example,

transceive correspondences of God.

Grey rolls in.

Wilted leaves are

stripped from boughs

by that selfsame wind

so the selfsame gloom

that drips from clouds

drowns every corner.

So dirge begins.

Western wind redeems

this song, defeats

the force that depletes

limb of life, tree of leaf:

“Despite the cruel death

body slowly seems to die,

soon birth's green breath

cries out.” Refrain repeats.

What evidence could be

that justifies to my

short temporal span

this wild inconstancy?

These lies your smile hides

steal sustenance from me;

I stored no single acorn:

sunshine promised possibility.

Each spasm mourns

for skin that lacks warm,

joys your grace bestowed

on ungratefuller forms

in the same backyard as me.

I awaited, awed. Expected

sight, in you, of God.

What customary fraud.

Speak of inconstancy

daily, Lady-- Demonstrate

willingness to hear me

some days, manufacture

pure sky devoid of all things

not gold-white sun, blue space

or shadowed flocks doodling

fluid geometry, active;

these flap for artifice, thus

temper deciduous climate

with frantic kineticisms--

You give me these but shortly, Autumn,

before that still-white sun calls all

light and heat from within blind pitch

of swallows; they coagulate at

his Westerning holler, congeal

into protean shades, violent,

approaching critical mass,

(part of me lives for volatility of

goldenrod ↔ living blue

{5:37:28 – 6:47:11})

mourning the collapse of our

photosynthesis into these tumbling

foothills, aflame--

Favortie kitten, Plieades, sits

crystaline at the zenith, watching

me watching her watch her icicle

tail tickle the trophosphere,

her image, altitude made low

by a sudden lapse in passion

that chaps lips, toe jambs, last nerves

until exposed soul burns raw

from cold, fusion, and crusts

thinly as the old drops

cupped in brown leaf--

monster

I feel his vibration as if a boeing cleaved the top floor bare
as I slept naked on the basement couch; pillars shiver, crumbs
dust my upturned visage. Exclamation erupts like puffs
of thought cloud, and how funny my speech sounds,
tinny in my own ear, veiling fears thinly as echoes. My voice,
a ghost's, screams translucent octaves that gurgle something
wicked with the texture of raw honey, the texture of sandy feet
fresh drowned by lakeside, still, wrinkled, rotting.
His approach clamps muddy fingers tight to windpipe.
Last breath ejects from throat, phlegmy; final hopes
of survival exhaled like smoke. There are no tears, no lip
ever trembles, but brown eyes close and I in reverie remain,
calculate, deadpan, that I'll never taste snowflakes again,
or in another January, learn to love a vegetarian.

memory lane

I miss the easy days. The layin' out under blue sky, high breezy days that strike mind as hardly fleeting as the last weeks before the seasons change. Before the sun runs out of juice and we can still squeeze rays that brighten, tinge horizons orange, before freezing rain replaces thunderstorms, dropping stings that strike skin spitefully instead of lightenin'. Afternoons that bled into twilights when me and you would lay, fit together better than a two-pack of plastic spoons, watch the pinky-nail moon hurtle itself around us, and ourselves plummet between pinpricks in the velvet ceiling.

Paradise Lost

I first drew the outline of myself in black, then

burnt-sienna once the last lil nub melted

between thumbnail and looseleaf

folded hamburger style.

I traced twilights whose edges

contrast too abruptly unless you

smudge turquoise into tickle-me

with torn wrapper paper;

no waste, it must be shorn to freshly hone

those waxen points regardless.

Familiar souls were thus rubbed out.

The abbreviated remainder paint surreally in memoriam:

g-blue, denrod, rnflower, berwolf, nd cheese, ulean.

Now life writes regularly as penclicks, with deep inkwells,

one long word in cursive like babelization.

There is ample opportunity for shading and a need for

full precision, but where has the color gone?

In full darkness some thieve, ravage it,

snatch at our humanity, our slight differentiations,

scribble over our design with ants' fury.

Ballpoint renders us, coerces delineation,

tattoos us illegible.

Vital shades yet refresh me.

Beneath their cool graffiti

skin replenishes, tissues soften;

remnant innocence dulled too often.