sundaynightat8

I’m taking her faded finger paint in my palms and practicing on point, because we aren’t dancing in vacant city cars on dead Jersey pipelines, but in love’s Carnegie. She strides blissfully along flat strings and I’m singing so soulfully  out of key. 

For years my vision slept on the end of my bunk bed.  Three tiers of finished wood separated the plastic stalks uniting my panes of vision.  Its layers lasted longer than my family’s unity and unscathed lenses.  Hanging from the headboard, they separate me  from what I want  and really see. 

As I walk the golden sands of the sky, my blue feet splash in cool black Atlantic locks.  Her shimmering ocean waves stop me by the shore.  The salt of sin burns, I will wander no more. 

Sitting on the shelf of a black, wrecked coastline, is lost love's opportunity. Am I the golden path of the ocean moon, marching towards horizons keen on day? Am I the moon, a one-orbit wonder wandering the sun's sky stuck in night? Will I be a wave, sobbing at shore? Ceaseless are it's tides toward forlorn Jersey shores.

Tomorrow, and now today the tides of assignments go out, while electronic fingers stroke the shoreless night, now a limp sail in a long sea.

Draw deep lines and flip.   Trace static and write light, then let one after another from your fingertips, entertaining the illusion of motion.   Everything that moves shares the deepest lines.

A fire line between black blades of grass   under pale pink sunset   ends at the toe.   Alone,   the tank leaks   words' wasted fumes   and a constant drip of clear flammable life.

I have two pairs of bedwear, both torn at seams between us and sex, that will never last. 

The pistol erupts and the stomach void becomes the beating heart matching pace with anxious legs.    Each step's silver points  mark the past, passed by sharper toes. 

The devil in his adversarial connotations Scrapes the teeth  Of my words Like the world's always wrong And silently Quips about The broccoli in my smile, but No toothpick can take out Our  underachieving  receding hairline. 

Is it bad circulation, or are my dying hands ahead of my heart?

Wild eyes drive teeth to meat, my chest. The host poisoned blood pumps my heart. Then red teeth seek life in foreign flesh. To the horde: don’t bother to bite. We’re all dead now.

plenty ink left.

north-bound.

“Mother why!”

in the crisper.