Comes Around

Sometimes I like to think,
as Cash tucked his black shirt
into his leather belt and black pants and
shined the toe of his boot
with a little spit and a rag,
that he had me in mind,
fingers on his machine head,
in my self important moments
walking the long hill home and
palms grayer than the morning,
covered thick with aluminum dust and
sweat slurried grains of floor tile.

Anorexic Chef

The preparation of food is a joy
in a vein similar to
what a commando must feel
studying and dissecting
the ways and wiles and customs of
an enemy's indigenous population
before a twilight operation
aimed at extermination.

Twiddle

It only took five years
to figure out
the opportunity of my life
to date
in bedding you did not
meter out
into a fruitful relationship
mainly because
what I saw as a chance to
fuck my way
into your heart forever was really
no more than
the satiation of morbid, passing,
curiosity harbored
for any unexplained and smoking wreckage
you came across
except there was nothing worth noting inside
my black box,
but, I am glad that at least you took
lots of pictures
because a disaster without thoughtful
documentation
is a waste of the precious stuff
of being.

That I've Met You

Where goes and is
gone to the streams and stones and fish
drops of orange and black candle wax
in aqueous flight
darting to and gone in a
blink without aperture and f stop.

There lies the remains of a day,
a week, lost to understatement and understanding
unrealized and what I've wanted
to show you
in the longest hours of my life
I cannot give paint to

and instead will
no more seek to give movement
to the atom and spring and vibrancy
latent and whispering
cool lipped to the hairs
at the nape of my neck so caught.

You've known the thrill of trickling thoughts
winding electric in the lossy.
Winding blind and static
before the touch of bathed and water napped
fingertips on the spaces of us
beholden to cotton and ester cloth
in the draining light of day.

I will tell you where I am
because I cannot show you
what I feel inside
the space of a world
beyond the space of seconds
that deign to capture and yield
to the cast net of voice.

Abstract Funk

There is a fascination with the outlay and set of the world,

come spilling through the valley to which I've seat,

in her silver blinking, unclouded, eye and lashes shedding

rays of raindrops like shower beads across and into

the furrows and curves of skin bound

too tightly to shoulders that sink and unwind

like thousand year louvers to a bedroom

in rivers running long and twine like and distorting

into steam heat to rise and press against 

the undersides of her stomach and ribs and chin

and catch in the fine hairs of her forearms 

like breaths of glass and seeds of vision,

that I have.