self-distraction;

and fed me, but only crumbs.

…the sum of all our twisted parts.

My dear, undress your skin for me shed that exquisite layer for all the men at your feet to choke on— but know that I am hungry, too, for the sustenance you keep hidden from the world your mind, your mystery, your meat.

Her weather vane spins Between truths and lies Her winter breath, Her summer thighs

When I hear the songs of my youth I hum along in wistful silence Memories are shaped like the longest blade A chasm measured in bars and lifetimes If I cover my ears, maybe I’ll deafen myself to the ticking

We were never taught that the truths of things hide in shadows and light, the way photographs lie— tricks of the eyes sleight of hand the pulling of one’s leg; whatever the case, you’re still a bitch.

The deconstruction of art, the desecration of time; The eternal search for everything— the unfortunate wait for nothing.

If only I could make peace With the violence of want I would no longer have use For this pen But I am a man, here are my fists I have bled for these words And I will not relent Until my body relents Until my glass is full Until you bleed, too.

I confess only to this: We all want what we cannot have And when we get it we want more plus fries on the side and a soda with that too, please Then there are things that should never touch our tongues Even if you can taste it in her words So we feast from afar, like saints But if I am a sinner then she is my penance.

Watch as these insomniac eyes Embalm my waking world A silent obituary; something for you to read.

Maybe I was at fault Finding in the translation What was never lost Devising something out of nothing, ex nihilo; but unlike a god I’m not omniscient enough to know what you were thinking on your walk home.

Swimming in your waters I find no shipwrecks no sailors no skeletons no secrets nor sins; only  your salt, my silence.

The more we show.

The human body is a transcendental thing The amorous ways it stains your clean sheets The chalk-white outlines of a crime scene The heavenly constellations found in dirt Lovers, murderers, and astronomers-- as beautiful or ugly as this truth may be-- they all need some body.

An ordinary life begets ordinary regrets death and taxes, stolen glances.

-201?

- 2010/2015