Thursday, June 11, 2009

this needed a title, so i named it after you (s)

You told me that you didn’t believe in God.
Your face turned to pixels, and He washed you away
with his hands.
He shaped them and swayed them
so that they became brooms,
sweeping away your apathy and ugly.
Grudgingly you kissed me and
I became a red fish,
bursting for Darwin, gills exploded
I was
a frantic acrobat stuck on land.

You reeled me in, fishermen. You were shape-shifters then.
Hooks in, you were a coke pusher-liar, a jazz musician, a Gemini.
You were a Delta, a dark haired and thick-skinned, one or two night standoffish bed post.
Once you told me I was pretty on the yellowed tile of a stranger’s bathroom.
When you dreamt, you dreamt about Italy. You were greenish copper scarred.
You were a bi-polar muscle car monger, steadfast and dead wrong.
You were one hundred percent Dutch and one hundred percent Italian.
You were Bob Dylan. You were an old man.

The others went out like lamps.
You remained, you were an alibi.
I stared blindly at your sacrum.
In retrospect, it was tired then
I told you how sorry I was,
for all that I had been.

Monday, June 1, 2009

do not//write something about never.

reincarnates from other lives, they returned on the count of dark

countless tries, they are reflections of Italian classes

of flesh-fables, in passing.

a blue colored, up the shirt-down. to. the. socks.

kinda-man waits in the doorway

tied up, barely.

smirking crooked like a baseball player with New

[dirty] Slang.

reciting wanton pants on the ground,

a black nonchalant Labrador

could not get through December

without sighing on the back stepped porch.

at his place on the south part of a paned-glass front door

a woman is shutting out the veranda

and he is tucking-in the folds of a new-old dress,

one of every color.

their skins are a hot waxy margarine from summer.

choruses of beautiful women in waiting, petition from behind the walls.

she, "beautiful," he says

turquoise dress, is every creeking noise in his hardwood floors.

she is all of the promises to cross stitch her heart

falling from her breath, with porcelain and bonnets.

her lips are painted in acrylics, poised and taught.

the mapper of her hair he draws plans (like inky tattoos) from her skin.

they’ve been waiting for the silence, it was just a matter of time.