Naked Poetry

To Kiss a moment.

To get it down on both knees.

To spill the vile.

To paint your nails

electronic

blue before playing all of

Chopin’s preludes

because sometimes–

you just need something

that will translate

into your

bones.

I hope it was me. When you sang today—I hope, I hope it was me.

And If you looked in our mirror you’d see me,

hovering above myself in the moment

before we kiss, thinking hopefully

this won’t shatter my bones,

at the same time thinking

so what if it did,

so what if I live?

Lost in my own shoes

I want to be grace so I

Listen to you move

Without all dream I am common. Without dream the desert dies. Patience doesn’t like running. Running doesn’t like patience, either. But I am running towards patience so I hope they need me. I hope something needs me. I want a course in collision. I want to live despite dying—I am not defeat. I will never conceal stars. They have too much to burn.

    The flow of mountains keeps me up at night. The flow of mountains tells me my time is almost up. This is not what I need to hear—still—I bury melancholy as far as the word “damned” allows me. It has always been the tallest statue in my collection of dispositions. I do not know what my countenance screams, no one has ever told me the answer to many of my questions. I dream in words, not photographs. I like to abscond from my own subterranean tricks and vicious vexes. I love to live despite my dying and glean from courses in collision. I love to find things in the imaginary. Pulling rivers and stre

Speaking of my elocution

you’d own the top droplet.

And several obedient words…

Come a little closer,

my broken candle.

Let me be your BURNING contralto

you shouldn’t have told me

there was fire in my voice

because now I see in Roman candles

And I can’t

promise you,

no,

I promise you

I will be happier–

skinny as anorexia’s right arm

I just have to get over

Plateau number three

maybe if I bump it up to 6.6 miles

maybe if I talked to Satan more

maybe

maybe

Maybe.

But for those of us Who are kept up by a longing for love. I hope the world is spinning calmly enough for you. I hope doves split your dreams in Two. So that when you dream—you can dream Slowly. Don’t Shake Us Until We Crumble. Allow us to say goodnight to the movement in our chests.

May, I am

—When I am not August or September.

When I’m not raining or on Fire—Always on fire, always gone.

May, I was. When I wasn’t burning on mars or simply

swimming in yr eyes or Gleaming beside your voice.

You were looking at me the way I look at things that I’d want to trace, or archive, or speak down, and print.

You looked at me the way you’d look at me if you loved in(to) me.

You looked at me the way I’ll look at my daughter when she asks me why I am crying.

You look at me as if you want me closest to you when we’re breathing. You look at me. That’s what I love about you.

You look at me.

That’s what I love about you.

We became drunks one night flying around all Buzzed and Lovely and Beautiful. Because we were together and tender and soft and subtle and that night—we taught each other Lullabies. We made ourselves our Own answers, and I taught you how to become alive inside of another body. How to outsource your heart. It is nothing like life, or sets of twins. Or bones. Or beauty. It is literal skin, and soft, and wonder. It is literal good night Bed Time hands—so soft you feel guilty. It is literally I cannot stop holding you. It is literally hands into your hair.  You held a knife to my back and scraped the wax off so I sent it back and seething. It was literally such beautiful words and witches and needles and feathers and pens and phrases and motion that I could not wave my hand in that motion, in that motion that is supposed to mean

 

Goodbye.

My Lady.

My Moon-crest. Under Saturn’s stars, over their water, Through our eyes, with our eyes, with YOUR eyes.

You Look At Me.

Your body is a trick.

 …you are not delicate.

In my fiction you

    Steal my fingerprints

And wrap them around

   Your wrists

       You say,

“I’m keeping these for later.”

 

Your body is a trick.

  …you are not delicate.

Your eyelashes sting

  Deep when they whip me

From across the table

  I just tell myself to count to three.

 

Good thing blood is thick.

    Good thing Love Lasts.

‘Cause we’re going to be here a while

               And yes

That’s a threat.