That Moment In The Bar

You were - you simply were -
right there before me
breathing as any other man.  
Primitive and brooding,
the bottom of my coffee cup,
like you - without the blue blood.

I was waiting for you to approach the table,
to turn to me the way you had her - but tailored
for attachment to my hem-line
(so affixed these desires to haunt you with lace).
I was waiting for you to take me back
to that place we always talked about in movies,
to that field where we used to stream,
to that world without hesitation,
to that bench in the park by the river where you said it all;
And I was too foolish to recognize
what you meant by "one day we'll be everyone."

Only steps away you're breathing,
and I feel it all,
the sounds cascading to color,
the bar stool turning splintered on its neck
just to watch you move across the floor,
to touch the crest of my fingers.

A Murder Of Crows

All on the vine,
all in a row,
how languid they move,
first fast,

then slow.

Let’s try to catch up to fall behind,
but clever is lost
on severed time.

Now what will we do when they descend?
What happens when conversations end;
over the telephone,
out of the light?
Softly they’re singing
they'll eat me tonight.

And you’ll run as I crumble
to feathers and dust,
my bones exposed,
in the murder of August.

Walking The Walk

Split my tongue on a shoe lace bound for nowhere fast,
and still you’re laughing like you know the road ahead;

But how many times have you looked that way
when you tripped on the staircase,
when all my words came tumbling down?

I can save you.
I can save you.
No.

So paint your face a different shade
and arm your frowns to zipper teeth,
because this is the path to never last,
and you can't walk flat-footed as me.

Fire And Ice

Hot hot heat.
Press your face to my lips and burn.

My heart is cold.

You Were Once

I am not by nature - clean.
My skin often dries - but I cover those cracks with creams,
so when the day comes that you get close enough,
I will resemble better who you believe me to be.

With any luck,
You will overlook the years of dirt
Still imbedded beneath the paint and plaster of these fingers;
The skins of all those other men,
trophies of former youth-
rotting.

The audacity I must have,
to so much as shake your hand,
expecting love.
But you were once too.

No Rest For The Wicked

Absent of the usual fear I find myself yet hesitant on the bow of his hairline - fingers slowed to motion stop - waiting for the turn away. Still no less I expect the outcome even when the night is quiet - his breath warm against my cheek. Still no less I expect any moment the violent overture of language and fists pushing polar our bodies across the mattress until we taste once again the solitary of pale streets. But then the minutes pass through long unseen hours over quantum worlds which though I can not see I know is there - along that great somewhere where we inevitably part in ways - and here I discover nothing - nothing but the lazy swoop of a turned lip too close to recognize as a smile inviting until he whispers “sleep.” 

This Flesh, My Flesh

I am porcelain cracked under years of weather stain
lesser aged than the listless beasts at my feet;
those blemishes which their fur in clever hides.
But tolerable these moles, these freckles, these scars,
to the spider veins who have built a home
on this rugged unpolished terrain
that you lay your cheek in sympathy
for all that could have been;
if I had just drank the milk like I was told.