"Can you snatch a promise?"
"Guru a wall."
"Surely. Save a tree, if’n he hit on me, but—"
"—tain’t the way the turn is paved."
"Don’t coddle me, though. Your hill is greater in the stake."
"So it be?!"
"So’n it be."
"But… I could not… would not… I know your desire to run fingers through that fine beard of his."
"Ah, it could still happen. Minus the sticky middle. A lifelong sighing and caress. Sigh."
"If protrusion were a fourth dimension—"
"Cease it now. We three will band arm in arm in arm and saunter through the park til its paths afford some brand of happiness."
"Hm… I would lie if denying watch of him. He is a fine man."
"Your taste is as exquisite as mine. And we shall each have a taste. Only the time of dining shall fare differently."
estimate our tools.
We still hear/
the rattling of chains.
beneath the sun.
We laugh at/
the stacked refuse.
cents of the lingering mess.
He said, “show me the work of great artists.”
I said, “look in the mirror.”
The clearing was fraught with weeds.
Walt’s hands were spindly, literal skin and bones; a pianist’s dream, though he had never touched ivory keys in his life; not even for fuck-around reasons.
Terry licked his bottom lip, tasting blood although the wound had healed considerably since last night. Skin around Walt’s eyes trembled.
They were between buildings, facades of brick-and-mortar, when Walt sank his teeth into Terry, whom gasped sharply, settling into a wave of throaty pleasure. And laughter. Tears gathered, lost in the folds of his smiling, dimpled cheeks. Walt backed away, incredulous, increasingly red. Terry licked his lip with closed eyes, glancing in Walt’s direction after a time, enough for Walt to regain equilibrium.
"That was hot."
Terry ran his sleeve across his lips, blinking back eye-water, silently noting the contrast of blood and leather. He smiled, teeth stained washed-out red. Clearing his throat, he brushed past Walt, shoulders colliding. The scrape of his boots rubbed against Walt’s transpiring thoughts.
"Hurry up. We have to get there before she does."
Of No Consequence
Give yourself a running start.
Watch that bottle fly,
twirl baton-like cross
an indiscriminate sky.
Continue on and fail to hear
it shatter, befallen some awning
of a humble neighborhood.
They are not yours:
the gutted bottle, the spirit-flue,
the quiet neighborhood.
They are of no consequence.
Something should find its way to my stomach, but not now.
Right now, when my bones are spasming from the coffee-dip.
I am not writing for you.
We are glue, and if we were to suddenly disappear, or be wiped away,
this country would fall to ruin. Yes, I speak of ones with lesser crosses.
Claim and blame. Claim. Blame.
We believe what you need to heal, be a better Be, is already within.
The world owes us nothing. When they raised you, how many times? Threadcount it. You cannot.
Migraines ora tumor ora withdrawal symptom. Or… wrinkling.
Fuck. Wrongright. Finger your front teeth. Bye.
betray inner strength;
a soft heart.
betray thoughts’ length;
his falling apart.
Citizens of the City, Crush
Jon Conway has become an apparition, a soft-core incubus.
His aperture grin, half-awake.
Like the others, he wears the same clothes, complimentary charms.
An erect shelf of fiction drawn with blocks of absence.
A city thrives here, avenues
fluorescent with facsimiles of the letter J.
It ceased being a perfect square
by nature of the fray.
Ridges of an athlete’s shoe
broke angles apart
into some billowing
out and out until the
yellow crossing brings back
the tarmac and afternoon gleam
of a too hot autumnal day.
It means little apart from what it is:
a wasted chocolate square
an anonymous heel
an aggressive wheel.
All I can think about is rubbing my larynx against cement,
widening the gap between front teeth;
letting sweat gather in the forehead trenches,
measuring the dirt hills between flesh and fingernail;
remaining sweet as the day I was born,
pitying those who ain’t never gonna see it.
My sweetness. Abstraction.
The plastic bag in flaming freeze frame.
The middle of the night, after all.