Chasing the whiskey that fell into her eyes.
I wanted to do something stupid and romantic,
to take her to an art museum
and kiss her between the paintings.
To write her name beside mine in a tree bark.
But I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to.
And still I said;
Let me secretly love you- all of you; the hard edges of your skin and personality, corners, cut sharp as diamonds where your cheek starts and tongue begins to end my existence. There’s too much spray in your hair and it frizzes against my chin, which is somewhat appropriate, considering you make my head feel like helium. Empty, but full as air, and when I’m against your lips, your voice makes a very funny sound that goes up an octave or two. Annoying as that orange I can’t stop remembering from Youtube, calming as the dumb songs you keep secretly adding to my Spotify. Send Nudes stuck on repeat, Cuban cigars and menthol cigarettes dinge-ing up the bedside counter your grandfather made just before he bit the lust and disappeared. Look at the dusk,my love. Summer is on us, and where there should be heat for touch I only feel a cool and calling tenderness. My heart beats, not for, but because of you.
Coming to terms with the temporary
is an exercise in futility. The glass can be
full or empty, but I’m smiling either way.
Composure is so often mistaken with ease,
and some might be fool enough to think
my grin is anything
grass and elm stretched tall and wide,
a grey-calm sky recovering like
someone just finished crying.
could I remember these days?
billowing clouds and swelling sighs building
in hearts and lungs. lips breathe and release
heavy waste like an exhaust pipe. I wonder,
will I remember these days?
nature makes a man feel peace, serenity,
understanding insignificance, no matter
the road ahead or trials behind him.
should I remember these days?
no, but they are necessary.
what a man will stand for,
yell, hoot, holller,
and stomp his foot
is always personal.
Vendetta disguises well
transmuted misery of too many days in bed,
and cold heart and stiffed hamstrings.
when does Christmas end
and the new year starts feeling
like an old one. Montauk’s
got secrets that won’t leave
Long Island. Behind the lighthouse
inside a dark home we made a
cozy indent of what’s familiar.
stretched and spread in shapes
that wind and coil, tense with sweat,
passion as a form of exercise.
exhausted happiness, out of breadth,
grinning and blessed in natural serenity
and gentle sin. done up in rhyme
such madness to enjoy.