Saturday, August 27, 2016

the night we unzipped the shells from each other and
i let you grab down
into the ice water
of me.

oh how, for weeks, your hands shook. 
how cold i must have been
to sleep next to. 

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

you have a rubix cube body, all stacked and 
tight together, all different pieces but luckily
i am a state-wide puzzle champ. 
listen for the clicks 
between your legs. 
center square red and throbbing, center square 
magnet, touching you like a cellphone to hotel key card, 
touching you like a jewel thief to a safe.

i'll be good cop, you be 
a racially biased judicial system
i'll bend you over this desk and 
fuck it all up.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

albatross

so, i doubt i'll ever love as deep
again, which no longer frightens me. 
it is a fact, it is a condition, it is an
albatross 
that i am learning to share the apartment with.

fingertips as smooth stones, Nebraska is 80%

mine-system which no longer frightens 
me, 
i give whatever is not calcified in my lungs,
which not much, back.
you ionized every molecule, the deadbolt
sticks, everything sticks. 
 
she's like a goddamn page 
out of a magazine
that's dissected on the window of a subway newstand
naked, 
i do not buy it
yet.