Candy for Molly

"The sex has been bleating," rereading
what was the hottest
it's not you it's me
letter I ever received I am touched
by my new beau who was curious
as to how the last one
went down.  When I said he wrote
a letter esorotic I cinched his arm,
needle in my mouth, all ready, there
to breath it into his skin,
"and I don't know how to fix you."

Say something quirky
or don't.  The unruled paper
is losing its starch where my fingertips
start to sweat through
the air of another pre-summer Thursday night.
The ink smudges, but I have read it
so many times inside
the words come out as though
his throat were mine,

and I am touched
by the attention
to detail in every line, reciting it
curled up tight.  He did not know how
to fix me, but, transfused into another's veins,
I think now I know
someone who might.  I fold it up,
put it away, and watch his smile
beam from a new face,
and I am
unwound by street's light.

Deserter

The day aliens land, and
offer a change of pace
in the form of voluntary abduction,
count me in.

I'm not saying life hasn't been fun,
but if I'm gonna die
it had better be
somewhere
in the vacuum of space.

And, who knows,
maybe they'll have badass windows
with a ridiculous view
while I'm being dissected.
 There's something to be said

for outstanding accommodations
during particularly adverse times.
That's why I love going to the dentist.
That chair is unbelievably
comfortable.  I fall asleep under those lights every time,

picks and drills ticking and chipping
like watch work.  The taste of the pains of it all
running down.  The view is nothing
to write home about, but if they have a chair half that,
and lights twice those, I'm in.

Pregame

When we were smaller
than we are now
we pregamed
before doing all sorts of things.
Things we preferred
not to be
all there for.
Optional.  In a way.  Can you
blame us?  Things changed.
So did you.  So did I.  So did they.
Optional.  In the way.  Can you
blame us
for not wanting to be
all there for
all sorts of things
I still do not talk about
in speakable turns?
When we were smaller
than we are now
we pregamed
before going out
because you were broke as hell and
I was a wreck in perpetual motion
charging down a hill yet to level
and broke as hell too.
Optional.  In no way.
If you turn the shutter speed
down real low
there is lapse light in every corner
of the four cornered room.  Light
on every street, cornered.
Things we preferred not to be,
and then things changed.
So did you.  So did they.
So I lied.

Birds and Theives

I have been trying to remember
how to hold hands without sweating.
The act is so far away from
making a fist, but
at least as difficult to do
without practice.  The dials inside my skull
fly to warning siren red
when trace heat comes in.  Black silhouettes
in the borderlands.  Mirage?  No.
Ready the armory,
someone is going to die today.
No manual for
the disarmament of skin.
There is a chord you strike in me,
the acoustics within my skull, however,
are terrible.

Exhilarator

The trail narrowed
ahead and behind
in twin stretches of rain blacked dirt,
grass split, and trees, rising to walls
to seat the gray afternoon sky.

The air reeks of slow river and
hints of Winter fall still not overtaken
by sprig.  The air, in that way,
fits, comforting, inside my chest,
deferring the hurt Summer will
lay across my skin
in due time.

Running on that trail,
dull brown railroad ties
passing beneath my feet
like minutes through my time,
I am feet away from a freight train
on the rails beside my own.

He heaves into motion,
the serial metal thunderclap clack of
six dozen solid steel couplings
coming taut, the engine so far down the tracks
I cannot see, bangs inside my teeth so hard
I lose my cadence.  He rolls,
gaining speed

but never more than me.
To see the thing go,
to touch the railcar's wheels and feel
the heat as they spin,
trotting beside with my ear to his body,
to hear the heart beat of the engine so clearly,
to feel the vibration
inside my head, so far away, is stupefying.

Running on that trail
between empty tracks and
beside tracks filled and hulking,
I see headlights and skip between and
for the next twenty minutes I am
between death, stupidity, and awe;
a maelstrom of rain soaked nature and metal,
trapped by choice and freed by noise
between passing freight trains
somewhere on the north shore of Pittsburgh,
breathless, and at home.

Summer Eyes Across the Yellow Plastic Table (in the breakroom at the office)

More years went by,
in getting to a point
where the office break room I called my own
actually had an outdoor facing window,
than I counted.

My back is to that window lately.
My face is to the vending machine and
black case velvet television basket head.
The late afternoon,
razor brilliant where the sun is
settling into the tree tops, glows
like new born steel beams
already riveted together into day dreams and
waiting for the cool.

In my eyes,
toward that window,
I can see the reflection of Summer,
unconditioned, careless
as loose fires on a high grassed hill,
and I can see my last real season
in that orange millimeter inside my iris
on the machine's face, that blew across the sky
like nails and pipe shard

built and twisted together
when I was still young enough to lose
so many kites, balls, and toys
up so many sunset trees
out there beyond my window's window.
As an adult, I do not know,
why I no longer have the heart
for paper planes in Summer time.
No answer for the adventure song,
the long low call, of the child
I left outside.

Break ended
ten minutes ago.