

J is forI still know your body like an extended metaphor.J is for
the hums
and sighs
and tremors
like the sweeping brushstrokes
of a Borges description, Ayn Rand monologues
in your hair and
bony guitar string fingers, your ridged back
a poem of Monet-tinted gauche, and Kerouac's cigarette breaks
in your dialated pupils.
your opium mouth is moving but I feel like I'm looking at a blurred Beksinski and I don't know the meaning.
I believe this is called masochism.


to: youI want to trace yourto: you
poppy lips with my glowstick
fingers 'till they gleam,
like they're slick with sweat.
(and you could be electric, maybe I could too)
as if you'd swallowed
a dozen fireflies in
your summer sweet tea.
hazardous things like belladonna and camel lights make me think of you.


fortasse.I am gaggingfortasse.
on cotton balls
& clumps of hail.
someone vomited in first class.
the smell is rancid & sour & sharp like january tears, like a cherry's stone heart, like the way
your face crumbles when I don't say "I love you" back.
my layover was in Houston, close enough to almost being half-way between you & Los Angeles.
(across the country, but it only feels like that when you don't call.)
I open the glossy, folded map in the seatback pocket ahead of me & imagine
--
you make me want to dance
a storm of appreciation
your ink splashes and crawls,
a wriggling living line on the page
im full of awe
It's all in the bones
&
hibernation love song
xo!
--
an antique arms and armor expert
--
"Don't poison everything."
Saul Bellow.
Naesse.
Thank you so much.
--
Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.
--
areml.com
my dA SHOP
my photo BOOKS
--
Helen Aikman [link]
--
menoevil.com
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