Flemmebé

Singed
out of choral slumber,
fingers wick
an exact sequence
of numbers, exhales
arithmetic, falsifies
testimonies.
Fire in wholesome
attempts get bent,
blowing gas-bubbles
toward inevitable
reverberation.
Went by way
of expectable delay;
left the burners
churning.

Variations on 'Together'

To get her

thinking, make way

through rain

and fear of caving

to unravel months

of premeditated

pleasure.

To forget,

we gather numbing

agents in our 

basement and set

them spry and loose

through backlit

landscapes.

Into our ether

I venture:

would it hurt 

so bad 

to set yourself
aflame?

Together—

that tying of time,

minced feeling

rolled in the taste

of your name, more

or less an answer,

maybe more

infested with 

reproachful

blessings 
than we could have

ever guessed.

To get her

scared, the nice

kind, more 

or less convinced

of this, moving

into better views,

brighter spaces,

kinder mugs, 

to gather brave,

to gather change

and cash it in,

getting warmer,

calmer, snug
in the sweater
of her voice:

It looks like you.

It smells like you.

Is it— 

if there is any place

you want to go,

one day, together, 

we'll go there.

One Good Thing

Waiting on— a bed, bungled
proposals, castles, omelettes, well-
met trials, thumbtack trajectories,
bouquets, silos, asylums, silver
medal relays: a trip, a slip of wet
chamber waits on skin-sting, feathers,
pebbles inside alcoves, a crease
in the late-night letter, an auspice, aria,
moonsong mouthtrap, a grumbling furlong,
forgotten oases, homeostasis, a humble
offer, a home, a retreat, a charge, an open
coffin, audacious bunches of grapes, ground-
lings, water rings, whatever the weather brought
out of hiding— a warp-tale, a worm-soul, grand
jesters, navel-gazers, an oxygen alchemist
convention, hair-binds, staring contests, lemon
rinds— waiting on a pawn, a boarded-up
evening, a card, a draw, an auspicious cloud,
a transparent stream and dusty laws,
lavender, wrinkles, awnings, wings:
but done waiting on one good thing. 

what we tempin

whose mannequin vesper
altar goes bump in the night

and desecrates orchards with
overgrown specter lyceums

taunting ripfire hymns toward
quantifiable letdown choir

lets letters infest feces laden
larceny and concave lullaby 

i know what i am but what does it do

if no one yells timber
will i still hunger

if no one's seen my sternum
can i alleviate this burden

if she don't want attention
what to do with my affection

if i cast it into a furnace
will the right words surface

if i ever catch these obligations
might i finally find the patience

to pursue my wants clear-cut
and emerge from this diligent rut

if you're trynna make me trip you'll have to do better than this

that's th party line, tug
it as needed, plug yr latest
prideship, make many cute
faces and execute th slumberin
brute inside you, forge yr
maiden name
onto an imperceivable stone

an maybe then
you won't feel so alone
but that's no glitzy marquee
spellin out yr bruised news
it's no headline migraine
congratulations
it's a girl

who'da guessed
th pearl would clam up
an lick th sand that spills
or that alpine storylines converge
over fanciful resplendent banquets
no goods granted from th perennial quest
none ingrained yet

i'mma migrate these feelings
an make measured overreactions
to th spidercracks of these fissures
and fall fall fall so far far far
till i at least resemble yr star

conversations from the brink

here's the thing

i know this
and that you
have that
and that we
both are
totally in
love with
our thises
and nobody
knows
that

but still

this
and that
doesn't
change
the fact
that

i adore
you
and think
you're
wonderful

and
that i
want
you

i'mma need this body for growing old

it is not too meaty.
my skin is fairly soft.
but it is not your
swiss-blade: knock it off.

it's not your forklift.
it's no automated screen.
my brain's in the mountains.
my body's stuck between.

it's no trash disposal.
ain't a sentimental mop.
books turn to boulders,
shoulders askin me to stop.

i'm okay being borrowed.
it's fine if i'm gettin paid.
but back's growin crooked,
this game's been overplayed.

they'll thank you in your grave,
and smiling pay for your lunch,
and break your dependable body
if they depend on it too much.

twice enticed

you sexy walking scripture
let slip your lip-ring infernal
breath let's appease demons
cradle each other's temples
tighten our hips to the lid
and whisper what we've done
in our heads into our ears
tonguing our reservoirs
with the flick of a fiery worm
i know i've been a bore but now
i swear it's effortless here on out
gimme a bead of your baby fever
and when we're off the clock
striptease this suggestive behavior

Bach, My Heartbeat

Though flogged and cloudy
my nervous center throbs,
spacious days self-ascend
on the drift of Bach's bow.

Scholarly impressions guess
at riveting translation sessions,
but deliberately underestimate
tenor of withheld inflections.

Through deflated afternoons
baited late into sluggish night,
the heavy pour of best attempt
is caught between bars of flight.

This spell reeks of succeeding,
as if it were nothing to even try.
Seminal sound floods out fear,
tribulation bows to Bach's cry.