Crush

Riddle me with your incomplete sentences.

Crease the last letter
you thought to leave beneath
the mattress
a secret admirer
only found between
changed sheets and
fingers tipped with
daydreams
afternoon interlude,
faded release.

Face me like a heart.
Open and close at the rate
of bus fair handed
to the driver who
sees you run
and stops to
tie your shoes into
a fatherly knot.

Give me the soul of your last sleepless night.
Pour it slowly into my cup
such that I can smell each yawn and
caress every droplet of the words you

only sell to yourself.

I know.
It is worrisome
to let it drum
bit by bit at the bottom of the glass
moments stretched, bare,

uncut grass.

How are you to know
I’m not just another mower
hired to snip at your growth, or
step carelessly on
your most closely held
solar?

I am the breeze.
I want to feel each feather of you
bent, perfect, blessed or pressed thin, overgrown, under rested. Tied and left in backroad gardens, exposed and erased, rewritten in jargon.

The way you fly…
I sing it.

I could write to you
every summer melody and
pardon my reality
the simple rain and drought of green
It will never render me

water,
but dive in–
dream.

Summit Rose(a Rewrite)

Bring me back
to your blue sheets.
Teach me red.

Your collarbone is a roadmap
upon which my fingers could
scout out every landmark
sending the coordinates
to my mouth.

Create a single night
with me.
Let us both collide
maybe
the stillness of your feet
will fall away
at the whispers underneath
your neck.

I
can sing to you
with nothing but my tongue
inciting
harmony
deep within
your stomach
notes strolling casually
up through the throat
greeting your hot breath
as you decide
to allow the refrain
a taste of its own
chorus.

First of course
those legs of yours.
One hand remains free and
bought tickets
to your knee.
Those fingers have been dying to hike
the snow covered summits
leading below
the single rose
where symphonies are strung along
by tongue as well as tone.

Your hips are
begging to be
jailed by palms and tips
as crescent locks and keys.
Suddenly there
isn’t air
it’s pressed from you
the petalcrest blooms
filled
with a new warmth
refreshing like sunlight
rigid as river stone.

Dear,

walk me to your window.
The breeze will cool
the sunset pools
fit to simmer
beneath the tresses
of heavy lashes
as starlit sighs grow dimmer.

Ember eyes,
burn me away
so I might live again
to douse you
with the songs
of “stay”.

Innocent Distance

Tripping over my own indecent socks
I admonish my toes in alpha numeric order
I don’t know which one I stubbed first but

it definitely did not happen

while I was reaching

for the swing set smile

in your eyes.

 
the blatant disturbance
between your shoulders
reeks of lost walk ways.
we drank Gatorade
as a method of supplying
our eyelids with brighter colors
and
being so young
who could know
electrolytes aren’t used
in defibrillators.

Bring me back
to your blue sheets.
Teach me red
and don’t starve,
blink.

My hands used to be
so content with
keyboard racing but
now I can’t seem to regret
holding you captive in my head
wrapping arms around
a frame of the mind’s design
enticing smiles and
feeling the lips turn
against my skin–
red
touched
lips.

Your collarbone is a roadmap
upon which my fingers could
scout out every landmark
sending the coordinates
to my mouth.

Create with me
a single night.
Let us both collide
maybe
the stillness of your feet
will fall away at the
whispers underneath
your neck.

I
can sing to you
with nothing but my tongue
inciting
harmony
deep within
your stomach
notes strolling casually
up through the throat
greeting your hot breath
as you decide
to allow the refrain
a taste of its own
chorus.

First of course
those legs of yours.
hiding behind nets and
cages of silk.
One hand remains free and
bought tickets
to your knee.
Those fingers have
been dying to hike
the snow covered summits
leading to the
single flower
where symphonies can be strung along
by tongue as well as tone.

The hips of you
begging to be
jailed by palms and tips as
locks and keys
suddenly there
isn’t air
it’s pressed from you
your garden blooms
filled
with a new warmth
refreshing like sunlight
rigid as river stone,

you

moan.

The Earth of you
collapses
revealing the core
[as we both rain–
but what is rain
when stripped
of atmosphere?]

Dear,

walk me to your window.
The breeze will cool
the sunset pools
lain bare
between the tresses
of your heavy lashes
and sunburst sighs.

Ember eyes,
burn me away
so I might live again
to douse you
with the songs
of “stay”.

#FlyMyLoves

Singing to a thousand faces

I toss every voice I know into

a void of endless smiles

of pains, felt along the crevices of

otherhood, womanhood, manhood.

The misplaced fist of oppression

deigning itself an authority

as if the very fact that it is a fist

gives it power.

 

I feel your lips,

opening to release any amount of faith

into this unforgiving plane of

anonymous palms,

knuckles laced with

ignorance

and iron.

 

I see you all there,

still smiling.

You’ve been hurt too many times to

release such blooms of

every single color

that ever made

a heart swell.

Yet, here you are.

Perhaps your mouths aren’t

spread, but pursed.

You can’t fool me, loved one.

You’re still smiling.

Beneath your glowing face

is an even brighter being of

calm acceptance.

 

“My time has not come.

I cannot soar as easily as those

born with the ‘correct’ structure,

the ‘optimal’ wingspan,

decided long ago by birds

too tricked by their own ‘flight’

to consider swimming

to even whisper the word, no–

they would rather the world had no water at all

than accept there are those of us

who swim.

And yet here I am.

The sky is no longer out of reach, for

our hearts have become the sky.

Together, we swim in our own

grinning, multicolored ocean.

For you see,

you silly, two-winged, single-beaked birds,

There was never flight.

There was only travel.

You put that name there

to keep us out

to make us feel as if

we could never touch the clouds.

 

I say this with love–

fuck you.

We will bring the clouds down here with us

and playfully dress them up

as your enraged fists.

Watch as they burst into nothingness

against the waves crashing

over our pool party.

Maybe once you accept Travel,

and calm down about your

traditional wingspan–

which NO ONE is attacking, by the way–

maybe then you can come to our party.

 

But you had better bring

a shit ton of floaties

and be prepared to accept

that every single one of us

was born beneath this sky

and none of us have the right

to define

‘flight’.”

 

(Poems of Pluto 5) Sol Sighs

Fuck me up, Sun.

Tear away the atmospheres between us

let them fall and crisp into nothing

around our mismatched feet.

 

Destroy me.

Show this simple asteroid how

the single most inspirational star in the sky

moves when the moon is on duty.

 

I will forgo any semblance of release

as long as, just once,

I hear that true sigh of spring’s awakening,

feel that hot breath

summer wishes it could possess.

 

Bite at me–

grip with all your strength at my

$20 sheets as I

teach you what the other planets mean when they say,

“rainfall”.

 

Lay your hips upon mine

teach me the definition of those

convective motions.

 

Let us test how far

the largest source of energy in the solar system

can take us in one night.

 

I know, I know.

The protection I’ve brought isn’t exactly

designed to handle temperatures

anywhere close to 6,000 Kelvin.

Nor is the rest of me.

 

I can only hope

my ears

are the last part of me

to melt.

 

 

(Pluto Poems 4) Corona

I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.

 

Her warmth is poison to me

you see its easier to simply

float alone, frozen than

pick away at the nitrogen ice

 

in hopes that one day

you’ll find the central core of life

that hasn’t been there all along.

 

I am rigid.

Her mere closeness

breaks me.

If I were to crash land into

her Saturday and

stay a few nights with

arms to caress and

cheeks to kiss, then

perhaps learning to swim

in my own chest

wouldn’t be so maddening

 

but there is no Saturday on Pluto.

There are no ponds, no lakes.

Streams or creeks, whispering sweet

lullabies to the moons.

 

I am forged of broken, stiff

glacial indifference.

 

Please, you wretched hydrogen star…

 

My fingers are not even flowers

yet they wish to bloom

along the fields of your

corona.

(Poems of Pluto 3) I Played Mario with the Sun

I took a picture of the sun

while she wasn’t looking.

I’m sorry.

 

I knew asking would only

brighten the flames

embolden

the teeth.

 

I wanted something to call my own.

Anyone can want the sun;

No one else

gets to play Mario with her.

 

So I captured her,

in this single moment where

my couch was her home

my voice

her touchstone.

 

I wonder how far

Pluto’s voice

carries

in the void between

my couch

and the center of

her chest?