In
writing on 02.27.10 at 08:30:00 PM
fireworks explode as chemicals converge
inside our skin of ambient sky,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
patience subdues sighs that merge
into a question left as the surprise,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge.
you laugh and lust of words
that pulse in crooked time,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
my sweat in your spit passes the urge
like cascades of instances over spines,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge.
this moment next is like forgotten dearth
remembering your old heart is wise,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
hair and hand and seconds fall to earth
pushing and desiring these growing eyes,
fireworks explode as chemicals converge,
wait: for lightning in the verse.
In
writing on 02.14.10 at 07:18:13 PM
there is a lie i tell to myself:
permeating every second,
hours at a time on
random days like
the mirror coated in steam
in a room with the lights
that only turn on
in the chaotic slipstream
of knowing it wasn’t a story
in the backseat of
a cab in a city that
is as far away from you
as you are from me.
there is a truth i keep to myself:
infecting every story,
syllables at a time on
the sloped breath
next to a word i want to say
like a song you want to hear
on the other side of
what you can promise
and even these words
are victims of
hiding a secret that isn’t
just obvious but is
nowhere near what
could sleep.
there is a lie i keep to myself:
one of swearing off romanticism,
since boys like me shouldn’t
get lost in the bubbling
wellspring of wondering what
language we don’t know how
to speak in that far away port
where the rain envelopes us
in its warm laughter as it
cracks the cobblestones in an
alley next to the shop where
we go by those names we
found for ourselves after
sailing through the storm
of presence and lightning.
In
writing on 08.20.09 at 11:40:33 AM
i am the horse that
you keep in your stable for
riding through fields.
In
writing on 08.10.09 at 12:15:10 PM
when you shower i
wonder how long it takes you,
i would stay forever.
In
writing on 08.09.09 at 12:14:08 PM
you tell exactly what
you want and i will make sure
it happens: now.
In
writing on 08.05.09 at 08:55:16 AM
The Shins//Sea Legs
please forgive me if this is too forward
but you seem like the type of girl that
doesn’t scare from the challenges
laid at your intersection, so I’ll
dispense with the imagery:
I am going to fuck you.
Not make love, or lay with you
or have sex, or get it on,
or the horizontal mambo or
naked calisthenics, or anything
else that those scared of fucking
call it:
I am going to fuck you.
And you me.
It is the softness you need mixed
with the roughness you want.
swallowing us in a sweaty ocean of
my limbs, your essence, and our
roar like the six seconds prior
to a hurricane that is heated by
the sun beyond points of tearing
asunder every notion of passion
we wrote all those years ago
when experimenting with lust.
you say that the distance is definition
but the first plane south has your name
on it with a bullet
and I
ignite like an afterburner.
all that you need to hear is a knock on the
door and your back melting to the floor.
Beds are not needed when I am fucking you,
and you me.
In
writing on 08.04.09 at 11:26:52 AM
Devotchka//Hot Burrito #1 (I’m your toy)
words are like
coffee brewing
just at points of: steam
leaving creme.
both sweet with arousing
musk (when mixed
with the sun) breaking through
those sheets we tore off a
bed we didn’t sleep in.
good nights are
the sound of my town:
slowly slipping along
a cloud drifting moon.
good mornings steal
glances like
the flirtations: in the
street for (those of us that
know) they are connected.
play simple seduction
with hellos and similes
hidden just beyond the future.
dreams are
the mystery of my town:
delectably igniting napalm
stolen from our fumes.
In
writing on 08.03.09 at 03:45:43 PM
The Dead Weather//60 Feet Tall
there is the tiniest crack of sky
that sounds like a
teal smith corona typewriter
i bought when 25 to
pound out
why love conquers every one
of your kingdoms.
the shopkeeper says we’re mad,
asking if I know how new this whole poetry business is.
Declaring that the point:
is a ribbon left
in place by sloppy semantics,
is all that is needed
to unlock exactly when I
find you.
there is the largest sliver of sun
that rambles around your
tabs and spacebars like bards.
it hits our carriage return
faster than my hand can
lay the next participle past pondering your parts.
In
writing on 08.03.09 at 11:58:22 AM
Otis Redding // I’m Coming Home To See About You
a ghost is merely just the
reflection of a two-way
mirror that covers
in a sheen, like
decisions
that have no business
leaving posies alone.
spirits? you ask,
they are just the
seduction of one-way
conversation that huddles
under the tongues
of women
left swimming in my salty sea.
clever? not truly,
when one considers that
every second left to
questions is like a
peach left lingering
on your skin after lust
subsides.
In
writing on 08.01.09 at 09:22:42 AM
i can wait until,
you decide it is prudent,
for us to be nude.
