Little shop of (body) horrors

Recursive:

too-soft skin smoothed over
strange, cloying, fat
forming false effigies
and burying, without
rites,
prodigal muscles clinging to
ill-fitting skeleton
occupying [wall street]
Or loitering, hoping (praying)
for a ride to a
more ( ) body
with mind in alignment
without rotors
warped and brakes
shaking when applied

downhill.

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Send as a private message

I still suck at watching Buffy,
but I think about you every goddamn day and
I named my guitar after you but
maybe it hurts to hold
and I love you and that is all
for the moment.

 

I wish you to utter the most joyous fucking leaves imaginable.

 

I stole that last line from a fanfic but the words are true and
I want
to only say true things to you except when
I want
to bleed you beautiful fantasies in case that might make them real.
I think
no words are wasted on you because you
lay words to waste with your voice and your art
the way you move through spacetime,
a bloody astronomical anomaly.

 

I saw Anomalisa with our poet and
we cried in our proximal seats but
I couldn’t attend to the plot because the images and
sometimes that is how I felt just being around you but
your bike is in my shed and then-

 

my sense of time is tearing at the edges between my toes and in the corners of my eyes-

 

where I want you to see crow’s feet one day

 

please share in a private mess with me
again and I will feather down the stairs to
sit beside you on concrete steps
shivering silent in an alternate ‘verse
where we are both content,

the way my plaid shirt is content-
on the arm of a couch
thrown over a book that I stopped
reading when you walked
into the closet doorway of my
cringing spirit and whispered:

 

“hello,”

Cut flowers

Pardon me,
if I should fall
to you
for you
with you?
As an autumn oak leaf
lulled low by the gravity in your eyes
to cashmere-touch your familiar skin.

(Have I been here before?)
(Have you?)

Struck shy
we glance toward and away
as though afraid
we will catch each other looking.
Of course we are looking.
It’s not a fucking locker room.

Or is it?

Squinting from the shock
of bright Pixar lamp lights,
dazzling and distracting
as I cut all the budding flowers
from my lips before
they are able to bloom into-

tentative roots of a possible tree

His voice when he calls me,
is the sort of warm you get
with socks, right from the dryer.

“Really, really good,”
He answers my first query.
I know it has to do with her.

He tells me how they went climbing,
and he was afraid, but sent the problem.
The way she looked over at him-

(Here, he interrupts himself to exclaim about how romantic it was).

“And she looked at me and said ‘I love you,'”
he finishes, quietly.

My throat is tight with fierce joy.
Smiling broadly,
I spin the golden band
on my left ring finger.

We chat for a while-
about how he said it back,
how happy I am for him,
how cute her dog is.

And about whether or not
we should look for a house that allows dogs
when we move in the spring,

Playfully grave,
the way we discuss things
when we know it’s far too soon.

Cincinnati looms behind me.
I ignore it to watch the joggers
who pass in front of my rental car.

I think about flying home
and finding them both in my bed-
warm and happy as socks,
right out of the dryer.