destinatioin

My breath settles with a rustle on the

tender land of your thigh. Words are

whispered; the season is unwilling to

pass on the lies of a leaning sun. Pages

of prayers in blue light and kisses

flicker in the coolness of the morning.

Hands spreading like feeder roots,

drinking in your milk soft skin.

You have separated me from myself,

untethered from the miles and maps.

In this moment with you, finally

a destination 

.

retreat

Let's retreat until the final edge, to

stand our ground until we fall into the

sin we were born for. Out in the dunes we

conform to the wind, the weight of the sky

polishing the diamonds of our eyes. With

watchmaker hands, meticulous with desire,

we dig deep into the flesh. Ransacked and

ruined until we are hung wide from the

tattered words of the day. The sand fills

the hollows that once held hearts

.

place

The rising thunder heads remind me of your

blush, capillaries dilating, the blood excited

to stain the pale envelope of your chest with

the adoration of violent urges.

Of all the dreams that have found me none of them have been you.

I want to know the taut hum of your skin,

the quiet stanzas swelling before the storms.

I want to dig between every breath, in that small

space of hushed consumption when moments tease

death, let your ghost crawl under my nails.

Already I forget how to be touched. I am feral

but there are still places where you would fit

.

waiting

I was the garden and the gun. But I grew crooked, a simple

engrained failure, even if my aim was true. Forgotten bullets

in an empty chamber, culled and rotting. What is left to hold

onto when all the corners have been cut. Can I believe my

doubt? I was absent in a tender age before the river left.

Beginning along the path of least resistance, roaming

downhill. It becomes worn, the banks root-bound with life. I

will wait until it cracks.

I am waiting for the thunder, another dry heave, another

empty promise, another ruinous blue sky.

Who is it that I talk to when the air is stalled silent and white.

Who is asking for flowers with caught breath and proud flesh.

Who's hand has drawn lines, finger shaped in the gathered

condensation. The silence of ice undisturbed, until restless it

shifts into silence. There is no revenge for this present.

The veneer is peeling away from the stainless steel sink,

too many egg shells, too many wine glasses, too many ash

trays smashed. Too many cigarettes left to burn forgotten.

Stained, scarred, too much everything weakened it's

avocado green resolve to conform to the swollen

presswood. Everything is always waiting to feel

.

be drunk with me

Be drunk with me on too much wind screaming through

opened midnight windows, 70's am radio, and laughter.

Driving fuzzy through this abandoned desert cut through

with wishful roads. A plume of dust rises signaling the

failure of our surrender.

Slide across the vinyl and crash your hip into mine, two

shores met in the curves of this ancient sea. We have

driven long into the silence when the roar of existence is

hushed by the certainty of mornings pink dawn

.