Muddy my love, love, lick my face with your black boots, shudder my heart’s tick with your own talking hands, explain without words what you see when you see me senseless + overawed, joint-achingly jangled in a love made of nets made of almost-but-not-quite-forgotten-melodies made from the nectar of a fruit never named or harvested…
Darling, my daddy’s razor strap is in my hands, & there’s a soapy cloud on my face. I’m a man of my word. Didn’t I say, If Obama’s elected, I’ll shave off this damn beard that goes back to ’68, to Chicago? I know, I also said I’d kiss the devil, but first let…
for Big Kenny, Little Kenny, and Joel3 Let us define a topology on the emotion L by declaring a sub-love L1, {Father, Son} to be an open love if and only if it either contains the open mouth kiss, Ø, or contains a series of emotional sequences L(f, s), where L(f, s) = hands open…
I was a fine altar boy, yes. They say I was also angelic, whatever it means this side of hell. My heroes have blood on their hands, & they all look exactly like me. A good suit. A tilt of the hat. A perfect, practiced smile. A white handkerchief in my breast pocket. Shoes polished…
at your marker (they call it a marker) a footstone hipper than headstones earlier mapquest led to metro north google to the most reliable cab service in peekskill I bring wheat tall dry half-live stalks bought the day before (new york has everything) no one questions the harvest shooting from…
She feels the shape of another animal three trees ahead, & raises her left front paw. Dew trembles on each blade of grass as a snake uncoils among the leaves. She’s a goddess in a world mastered by repetition & unearthly cadence, pacing off light hidden in darkness. She eases down her right paw, slow…
That he left it behind when he left. That it has three teeth. That it might be the horny snout-end of a defunct dragon. That I remember him, early on, putting it in and turning it when it broke off. That he looked at me and said, Uh-oh. She doesn’t want us to get…
In this thin air, your voice carries for a quarter mile, grating like a train, and I relearn the ancient lesson—epic sadness travels. Your braying turns everything tragic. The face I shave: crossroads of dolor. The bed I make: labor in lostness. The scrambled eggs at the end of my fork: another bite of a…
They are, my love, a cross between Einstein’s and wheat fields. Twin mustaches. Strands of sugar right before the cotton candy is spun. Astroturf welcome mats. The cellophane grass of Easter baskets. Caterpillar chia pets. Brambles and squiggles. Seaweed strewn on shore. Spiky cloud tufts that lift up when I show you my slip or…
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