the black-top asphalt

some lucky buddy took a chance to ask

and she said

yes : )

caught parched looking at her like tall glass of water with a slice of lemon

spending the day together gayly; welcoming in warmth of spring

her yellow sunhat whipping in the wind

the other wearing a red jumper with a dreamy head on shoulders

both queer beauties having bounce in their step

skipping downtown vivaciously

looking for something cheap and delicious to eat

but only ever being greeted by

the heat

empty lots

and sidewalks

until after passing by the sixth gentrified Korean-burrito shop

they stopped and stared

thought:

should we dare?

the other saying that

“The run-down noodle shack is sure to satisfy.”

with her saying that

“The noodle shack is sure to be whack.”

impatience growing and with five more minutes they went

into the building and found a round bowl to put their order in

taking two clean, crisp pieces of paper and writing in their desire

with eyes bigger than stomach

and they sat

and they smiled

and they waited

knowing there was no better way to spend time on Sunday than

together

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p.s. I love you <3

A want turns into a need turns, turns into a need

I wanted this

“I don’t know why you’d be jealous

I’m a mess”

I wanted this

I still want this

“Only you draw bodies I relate to”

…

I was in the mood for this

a dull-bodied thump on the ground

sound of full heart — what’s the sound?

bu, bu bum

bu, bu bum

like

pitter patter

pitter patter

deep breath, approach

grasp up the thumper — book

a cover bound by leather and cotton

three words bound by hyphen

“Together-in-Place”

together?

I had wanted this.

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p.s. I love you <3

Had I spent just one more week in your arms I would have went on my way. Which direction? Home. Playing ball in the 3rd grade outfield with some miasma of memory hanging over. I should have never left to where I do not belong. The world for a sample of ample time with you. A shadowed haunt that this is too much to bear. Should have never pitched that fever dream towards a taste of cream. Is there a home to return to? Would I be a lone star in the space of a constellation? Having been six years since graduating from high school would seeing them get my fix? Starving dog running through thick fog over rickety bridge, which way to father carrying mutt off by the fence? I had hoped to live this long. Why the rush?

Losing my religion for the third time; reasons in legion with one another. Anhedonia creeping, settling in for the third time. Comedy comes in threes. History comes as farce then as tragedy — to live as my nom de plume: Ophelia. Look and find some river to drown under in. We have a ragged salve of history; no need to take the rag and wash me clean. I understand my place in this story. To be without. To shout as loud as possible before diminishing to ash. I know my name and I know my place. Come and see what I have to show through my time as a fool’s fool’s lover. Here I am standing distantly a thousand miles away from my spouse and parable babe. I have gained nothing but heartache and a few murmured acquittances through tremored hands! Why the rush?

Am I on my way out? I have given enough. There is no sadness in death only reenactment. Yet, I want to keep the story alive. Not necessarily for me or mine but for father time’s sake. When all you need is to rest in someone’s arms every touch feels like a test of veneration. Each finger pressing down like dagger to chest, do I deserve this? Do you like when the pain makes me whimper? Why the rush?

The turning of the seasons, each bringing a new promise. Autumnal wind turns bitter to nocturnal winter’s night to be met with the dawn of spring and the heat of summer’s afternoon. Overhead the moon’s tune plays in G minor as the cows bow down for the night. To depart means to never watch the leaves turn and the wheel spin anew. Why the rush?

Stay a while longer and let yourself linger in doorway.

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p.s. I love you <3

Remember for a moment the people you held in your arms. Will you let harm come to them? Oh, weary radical full of bitterness – reminisce for you must remember! Have you ever met someone for the first time and swore you knew them before? We are more alike than we are different. Like sex, IQ, race and all those quantitative grimaces. The making of the master is the making of the slave. Douglas knew this daringly!

Pick up the stone and throw it.

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p.s. I love you <3

boundaries lapping up themselves

delves with fail — tongue-twisted

into meaning: this or that: here or there

lie upon myth upon lie upon myth

stacked like index fossils to a lost linger

while abiding by no spirit of land

charging fee upon entry

a chirality of misalignment

how did the land get so warped, so TWISTED?

12/11/24

THE IDEA OF FEAR

feeling dyspnea creeping in

sin seeps through crimsoned cloth

sloth one of seven deadly

freeze, fight, flee

inaction is certain to be

death

12/12/24

awake for no one’s sake but own

spending every tone-deaf dollar

a resounding holler

gears turn and crush to dust

empires rust in turn

in two-hundred fifty time

a crime of self-consumption machinery — no cessation

a plague upon the head of house

of those profane kings whose wings are of bat

two-hundred fifty years

the average expiration date

defend, deny, depose

I BRING NOT PEACE BUT SWORD1

THUS SAITH THE LORD

12/13/24

thanks for reading <3

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Hide?

Run?

Disarm?

A disarming glance from her deep-seated eyes of emerald

A struck pluck in the heart

Leaving all to be all things

In all things goodness, fairness and all those ideals which hold no water

The pail is empty

What to do about the bomb?

I prayed a dirge to the old urges of youth

When I was a young sleuth, caring about the message and the messenger

The dirge was not an urge unmet but a lust after what I already had in my maw

Running, chasing, like a dog with heavy lungs of an exhausted pull

A rush, a push and gone.

A pulling at my heartstrings; a grief totaled in price.

What’s the worth? What’s the use?

Funeral costing thousands – my peace costs pennies

Claim denied. Prayer unanswered.

When you weep, where do the tears go?

Who sweeps and cleans in the manic-filled excellence?

Not a crumb near corner nor dust on shelf

All sterile and all clean

Love promised is no love at all

When you weep, do you seek any guidance?

Take a chance perhaps and be punctual to your therapy

Tears sapping strength as you lay there sipping on mudslide

The sludge slips down the slope into the throat

“I mean no harm, I only wanted to eat the arm, not the heart”

They say with bloody hands and bloody teeth

When you weep, where do the tears go?

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Thanks for reading. : )

p.s. I love you.

The pursuit to some kind of objective or standard depends upon the subjectivities of those composing the whole of the discourse. Do you know what I am saying? Do you understand? My life was threatened last night and I felt nothing but relief and desire for them to know me. Why is my feeling a desire to be known? To be known is to be loved. I want to be loved in the arms of my assailant and the mysticism which shrouds our eroticism together. I want our blood to write poetry on the walls that adorn my casket.

“I love you” the breath that exuded from the words was heavy with the tears of the throat. “I love you” she says with an open smile which cackles like a madman. “I love you” he says with a desire to keep you all to himself in that gilded cage where the birds sing and worms play. “I love you, I love you, I ... love you” she says hopelessly holding onto the last line of literature that she has written for the engagement, the script fading as the hand pulls away from brow.

I wish I could love like you; that stupid Steven Universe song that plays in my mind with every whisper of what I know to be a yell. I want to be known! The monumentality of man a testament to our desire to transcend the realm of flesh and be inscribed into stone: medusa’s blessing for her suitors and rapists alike. What a blessing it is to be a statue adorned with gems and bronze. What is love if it is not a chorus? Love as standard as that which is composed of parts of a whole. A whole which dances and plays with the environment coloring and cascading each utterance. A standard? An objective? I know of no greater virtue than tenderness.

Life being some ouroboros funded by George Soros! Those right-wing conspiracy theories which enchant so many like siren. Might I be enchanted by you tonight, beautiful?

I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. I want to be loved and known. There is no greater virtue than tenderness?

Kiss me and make me your wife with your sacrilegious eyes. Take my hand and trace your hips like something holy. Something worth your time! Am I worth the hourly wage of your patience, who knows! Marx? How many yards of Lenin am I? My longing is Southern born with a Midwestern mind - I miss the warmth of my mother sun and my mother misses her son. What does it mean to be dead once over and walk still amongst those who live with only half a heart? Sleepwalkers all of you. Tenderness is to be taken by the hand awake and led home to rest. Must I be awake for all of this mother? yes.

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