And Lastly; It Could Have Been Anyone Else.

I breathed out
And let go your name.

On my lips
Kiss swollen, too plain.

I breathed in
And cursed that name.

Cracked, wind burned
Corner dwelling former lover,

Oh, I cannot speak of you
Never think of you.

Your name here,
And Your name here.

Resigned To The Suburbs, After The Fight.

City rooftops and
black tar heroin
sticking to feet
like flies on filmy paper
dirty wastebin condoms
wheelchairs to hold the booze
the one legged man
the cockroach smiles.
dumpster dove moldy bread
rat knawed apples
dirty fingernails
defected.
caught in the turnstile.

Listening In The Alley.

Bare womb,
except the still child
rotting along the walls
Shrieking cat,
drawn out wails like nails
against a board for chalking.
What lays
inside was alive and murdering
rupturing on its way out.
predicted storm
the likes of which never seen
and had never come before.

Not Home For Dinner

not flailing or sinking
but sunk in fact
the gritty taste and glassy substance
of sand already found its way into the
crevasse between molars and gums
underneath the tongue
salty and chipping away.

we all were driftwood
searching for a beach to land
and at least be buried.

some shore, somewhere
smoothed glass lays among the trillions
of specks being home and gently rubbing
until the top of the once broken bottle remains
lovely after submission

I can see, I am not blind.

your patchwork tongue
can keep you on dry land forever,
but it will never be home.

Institutions.

Alright, Sammy said.
Give her the diamond
with the moon inside.
Whatever she wants,
he says,
pulling his credit line,
losing his laughter lines.

But Doris,
she is never pleased.
She doesn't just want the moon
but the stars inside
And the gold leaf forks and knives
with matching napkin rings
she wants it all.

Sammy sighs,
he knows to give in
is better
than being alone.
If he was,
he'd probably eat with
silver
and know no such thing as love.

Cricket

these knuckles turned white as
ocean caps grabbing your locks
in both scenarios.

flat and precise as a dartboard
aiming for the bullseye.
bullseye, you can always call.

wheat grain hair falls in
your face, i can't brush it away
without fingers

I know you sleep in duck
feathers, and deeply
never thinking of me.

It's half past eight
still awake and wondering
why my knuckles are so white.

"Romance isn't dead, it exists elsewhere"

amnesiacs claim their love runs deep
by the smell of your hair
toil the city
graffiti the stairs
write: love can not live here
when it's alive over there