time brines 

and wrinkles deepen

during times like these, I'd rather be pressed 

like a tulip shoot

 between the pages 

of a diary,  

and left to dry,

 preserved 

hidden from the scorn of spotlight

as it spins over the face of fascists

well-known and

smiling, 

glisten-toothed and hungry 

eager to make nations forget 

the smell 

the soot

of a fur...

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we touched the sky

with suffered silos:

feigned gates on which my love might hang 

scabbed wreaths creaking in idle winds

peppered, long-feln

to keep the flies off 

to keep some facsimile of youth intact

another field-dressed carcass

only good for sausage

by the watershed.

ground is a funny word, isn't it? 

rough-hewn earths and

torn up turfs and

a finer...

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I love you too
chronic,  6 am nosebleed . 

.

I can feel it 
I can feel it circling 
and breaking off 
layers scivved away 
by the cloying event horizon
by a tired pain in my chest

the weight 
of waiting

while the slumber of the river
calls.

could i be ophelia to you? 
left sun-bloated by the bedsheets?
death drawn through 
a pneumatic syringe and layers
of sickened foam
...

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i hate this empty house. 

beneath every floorboard,
a void
a yaw of wretched midnight 
clawing footsteps, pacing
and pacing
echoes banging
barbed and noosed
by nothing 

and the only thing louder 
than the bathroom fan I never turn off
than the drip of a sink, the tick of the gas stove
than the sleepless train yards and slick black streets
than the desperate, hollow orgasms in a co...

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by the flicker of my spark
by the cooling coals
beneath the hearth
by eyelids,
flittering then frozen still
where the snowflakes fall, today
where the Ash tomorrow will
our snuffed will lay to rest
a sediment of misspent youths
the rest will weigh fate's dander
o'er paths of long forgotten truths

brights buried
in moonlight
in alien sun in long-tread lost ways tr...

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together

thru all the glue

filn history's glossy cracks

and all the pines

from wane to wax

we were(are, perhaps)

moonrise bent

lain with backs

pressed on tarmac

slid red, long

longer than we thought possible.

dream-licked heads

shattered and spread :

painted lines on painted lines

on

painted lines

down along this serpentine road.

without a motion ...

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lain in, thinking about 

the soft roll of hair and 
gentle exhales and 
soft, pressing folds 
filled with tiny collapsing sounds
sighs, held on high
near imperceptible if not uttered 
direct
and deep down 
and deep down
and deep down 
like the brush
of my bones
where all the gaps between could disappear 
where we don't need to know where one begins
or the other ends

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