QUARTZ

tone up my best furrow, and sit (regally- one leg over the other) or i could rise from my wing-back and use my last few steady  fingers to drag your memory rooftop and dip it in ink,  arched back and wiggling with laughter.

You wouldn't have to package yawning lilies between pressed pages of tawny novels. 

you could give in with a minor third or a light knock and I’d tumble from my perch, run to you with two left feet

To decompose is to destroy is to delete, which can be  beautiful, you might say. Except deletion is sickening,

defacing, gets me into a purging mood like too-ripe coffee  Or cacao that plans creative play dates with aggravated intestine walls.

Asked a very beautiful girl Would you please Read my poetry

Knowing full well the shit Of it all. Wanting to see her Mouth curl and ebony feets

Of crows Dance in the  corners of her face. Desiring  The intimate Empty sounds

Echoing feigned insult and  Invitation to a quick stepped  tête–à–tête before my stop.

Instead, all I got was this Misdiagnosed addiction, to which, I said, Please, by all means, use

Your tools- your whispered Syllables, focused gaze, fingers Like a massage on a page

Certain phrases arrest like fluent aphasia And too often our words are more bee -sting and less honey-things. Words,   4-8 letters long, love, that are too soft and heavy to nail down.

it’s the minutiae that prickle, nick or smooth.  I’m attached to each letter of your letters Even the tallest letters that formulate under weight like beds of stingers under fakirs in Benares. I've studied these letters in a  lesson of you (e can be visceral and rumble; o’s a stream of stone)and now I live for each blank- each fall into möbius relief; struggle to begin the next word.

You divided lines of poems and gave them cushion on a bed of air above a slowly fading pencil line so that bee-stings  never settled down to meet honey.

That book is the only way I won’t forget the time you came over and made me promise  I wouldn't keep your favorite poets collection of poems.  Your fingers cuffing my hands to yours, i knew  that week would be my favorite memory of you.

I crossed my toes and lied.  I built my words  in a space. In the fault of a space. The heart has it's own tinge of aphasia my memory does not. It's happened before  and things don't never change: 

I was the book you picked around, threw up, and failed to finish.

Acetone couldn’t strip the residue of you 

off my little boar brushes. You are already 

speckled on the canvases I paint. 

I’d never soften the bristles