Bent steel
Lenses reflective
Of the river
We came down

On a blonde
Freckled face
Wearing a
Camoflage ballcap

And a sunburn
Tank top atop
Bikini swimsuit

From Apollo and Ra

Glowing nuclear
With catasrophic
Power in redding

That is what
Is reflected

Sorry for Being Perky

Sorry for Being Perky

Red polo shirt
With a name badge on

I remember the candy bar
And cola you bought
For me

A day late
My seventeenth birthday

And took it to me
In class

I remember wondering

Why celebrate me?
A stranger to you?

I wondered inside

But couldn’t confide
In knowing I didn’t
Know you

I enjoyed the surprise
Lit up in confusion
But didn’t question
Anything out loud

Then we’d catch up
Two years later

And you’re wearing
A uniform
That compliments
Your form

We walked among
A cemetery
Of ancient headstones
And witty carvings

On summer trees
And grave roots

Light will flow
Over the branches
And leaves
To touch the cobblestone

You look
Scandinavian royalty

But these gifts you give
Could be given
To another admirer

I don’t know what
Makes me special
As an outsider

To be able to catch up with you
Outside of work
When we’ve run into each other
Outside the cemetery

Where the graves
Are marked with overgrown

They bury
The famous here
I’ve heard

Yet infamous are we
In our own respects
Enough to inspect
Each headstone
To respect those entombed

But only in memory

Of multicolored
Polo shirts
Shed from separate

Talking about
High school drama

Let’s go eat
And drink those
Unfamiliar nerves in
Return to
Engage some things
Nice enough to gift

A gift I’ll consume
Two years later
In a lot of graves
Aft light from an
Ancient sun

Too much drama
On these stones
Doomed to be
Discussed by

Infamous types

One in a red shirt
And too regal
To be present

And parked in the lot
Belonging to the employ
Is a car with a frankenstein
A black hood
And beat up bumpers

Fit for royalty

Ready for another
To put drama in its grave

Underwear and Boxers

Underwear and Boxers

Left tangled up
In the blankets

After a long night
Of morning
In morning
With the window open
Because the room
And our bed
On our second floor
Got too hot

After sweat stuck
To our hair
And made it stiff
In places
Like hairspray does
But sporatically

We remember
The morning
The early


We spent hours
Getting ready

Like Eskimos

Like Eskimos

Two bodies arched
To share warmth
Like bridges meeting

Both bending in rhythm
Sharing each other
Leaning on one another

In the cold night air
In a tent with a dozen blankets
Spread on its floor

Two loving bodies connected
Continuously in sync
Underneath layers of warmth


With the tide
Making their own flames
In absence of a campfire

In the motions
And rising
And rocking

Friction stoking the heat
As she was atop him
And they were sitting connected

Bouncing, waving, swelling
With each other
Each gasp and moan

Each flash of water
And glint of summer
Warmth being generated

By two lovers having
“Eskimo sex”
And making more love

Than a tent or freezing night air
Could contain
In the moments it made

In the quiet mountains

Blue People

Blue People

The name of the tea
Was “Blue People”
That you scooped
Into two infusers
And placed into
Two cups of
Hot water on your
Granite kitchen

It tasted mellow
Like kissing your hands
That tenderly
Placed the expensive
Bag of dry leaves
Back into your
Tea cabinet

Some kind of
Vitality that you
Had to keep
Specially away
From others
It was your

Blue people because
They rarely came
Out of the cupboard

We Is Us

We Is Us

We is us no matter what.
Zero fuss “and stuff”.
Somewhere, the mountain
For us to climb

Some parts yin, and
We is us no matter what.
In the morning under,
Somewhere, the mountain,

Just a thought of
Some parts yang, and
Some of lust.
In the morning under

A pleasant dawn,
Just a thought of
Some mountain peak.
Sum of lust

For the rock and
A pleasant dawn
With clean greens,
Some mountain peak:

A love of changing shadows
For the rock and
Summit white-capped
With clean greens

Painted on the granite.
A love of changing shadows,
We’ve always got the mountaintop.
Summit white-capped.

We is us no matter what,
Painted on the granite.
Somewhere, the mountain.
We’ve always got the mountaintop.

War Prize

War Prize

A beanie left behind
Has become part
Of a small tower,

War prizes scattered
Among remains of
Battlefront ruins.

We deserted to
For gold.

From a noose chain
Hung a rare painting
By a dead artist,

And I think now
Of the bombed town who’s
Rubble we waded through.

Ordered, was the chain
To be unfastened
And the canvas “rescued”.

Zero Discord


Zero Discord

I turn over in bed
to look at you.
It’s dark in this
room, blinds shut.

Lights are off, and
I’m holding your hands.
Looking at your eyes,
I remember hugging you

earlier. I was seeing you
for the first time in a
while after a brisk night
drive to your house.

Streams of wind chilled
the windshield and
whipped in through
rolled-down windows.

Through the windscreen we
admired the approaching
city lights as you rode
passenger and we descended

down from your hillside home.
I could sense your pulse
beat with gear changes
and the curves in the road.

Wind threw your locks about,
but here now your golden
hair is resting on
my shoulder, soft like

a new paintbrush. Dirty blonde
pigmented strands brush my
collarbone, faded to ivory
from streetlight antumbra.

I’m in bed
stroking your cheek.
I’m holding you
close as can be.

I can hug you
and squeeze you tight
underneath sheets,
no longer daydreaming.

I kiss you, and we
roll over. The scent of
Viva La perfume is rife,
billowing from bedsheets.

Your lips taste semi-sweet.
I lean back to look at you in
what light’s glow from blinds’
slats that expose your shadows

and curving planes of body.
In the dark room, only dim,
striped blue hues show me
an evergreen you.

Touch of warmth from
chest, and fabric of
high-count threads
rubs against us

in the bed. On an
end table out of view
rests our necklaces,
holding hands, too.

Your little turtle
pendant, green and blue
and nickel plated,
next to my small

wooden puzzle piece
on a thick, black
string contrasted
to your delicate chain.

You shine, and your nude
thighs subtly close in
perhaps timidity.
I recall hours ago,

the way your lovely face lit
up ever so slightly when
you opened your front door
while I was knocking. Often,

It doesn’t always have to
be something risque spoken
between us. Foremost, it’s
simply us. Us feels natural

when we harass and poke
at each other in the car,
or even through our phones
when we’re miles apart.

I joked and jested about
the lack of food in this
apartment. Yet this moment,
you consume me. I say

“I love you.” while we’re
aware of each other gently,
our hands underneath a
blanket that wouldn’t last

covering us much longer.
But even in this now,
we haven’t changed from
our earlier joking.

Haze of blue light
from streetlamps
illuminates your bra
and my shirt on the floor.

In this dark, I don’t need
to see you to know that
you’re beautiful, because
I quite know that you are.

Your silhouette ripples in
between ceiling reflections
of a twinkling pond visible
beyond drawn blind slats.

I think of your skin
as I touch every inch.
I admire your ‘seamless’
underwear with my hands

after an earlier earnest
discussion about something
sort of silly turned
into a clothing label learned.

Every part of you is
taking in the faded light.
Even the parts you aren’t
as hot about as am I.

Now with your hair
sticking to my lips,
I rub your back
and feel your legs.

I think of the open window
and how warm the air
is becoming with our
paced and subtle movements.

With your legs sprawled
around mine, I kiss you.
We smoothly roll over,
and I feel you again.

Feeling your spine
and your soft S Curve
down to the crest of
your curvy waistline.

Your scent clashes with
the moisture of sweat
that’s lightly formed
on our arms.

Your unruly locks fall.
Cascading down cutely
and tickling my face
until you blow them away.

Your dazzling eyes are
black and white in the
faded turquoise light.
Muscles tense

but we haven’t changed,
still quipping at
each other affectionately
while you’re on top

of me. I remember funny
things and sentiments
we swapped earlier; how
similar now always is.

It’s some kind of wonder,
some real rapture, that
has me. It’s a melody
in the night, when we

connect. It’s called ‘us’
in name, and in practice it’s
being open. Together. Jokes
and left behind intimacy by

your breaths aside, it’s just us.
Intricately, complexly, evergreenly
something semi-sweet and
too wonderful to not say so.

I pull back from another long
kiss to see your eyes very
subtly aglow in the dark.
I remember how they shimmer

in the daytime. But this
early morning, we shift
again. Still nothing
different. Just our den.

Between the purr of past
engines, and the heartbeat
behind your chest, know
I feel you just like earlier

when we were in the car,
driving to this apartment.
As the engine revved then,
I feel you just as before

when we were laying on
the couch, lazily holding hands
and watching crude cartoons
on the plasma television.

When I looked at you, and
with a grin of mischief
proclaimed “You’re pretty
pretty.” in all seriousness.

But then just as on the couch,
with your fluttering voice
you sigh in reply, “You’re pretty
pretty, too.” And we giggle.

Yet now, our bodily fluids
combine in remembrance of those
stone set sentiments. Ourselves
being us and naturally entwining.

Still giggling from before,
still beaming all the while,
we won’t be any different
than any previous place or time.

We’ll get up in the morning
and shower together. A faint
musk of strawberries will
permeate gently from your hair

with fragrances of shampoo and
body wash casually soaping.
That same, clean, homely
aroma will potently emit

like it does now. Your makeup
will run under the water and
you’ll say, “Oh, great, you’re
gonna see me with panda eyes,”

and I’ll tell you “You’re cute.”
Later that afternoon when
I take you back home, you’ll have
a hasty panic, sighing,

“I must have left my necklace
on that table beside the bed.”
Which I’d find later that day
beside my own wooden pendant,

still holding hands.
You’ll tell me from miles away
that “It’d be cute if you
decided to wear mine instead

of yours.” I’ll smile later
the next day after I pick it
up and proudly coil the small
chain around my neck.

I’m looking at your eyes
and your lovely,
ethereal lit form
beneath mine. An hour or

two ago when we were
getting comfortable, I
watched you take your
necklace off, along with

everything else. Something
thin, something sheer,
something too thick that
wouldn’t be missed.

I’ll wake up beside you later on
this morning after we grew tired,
at last, of wasting away the
early hours of today. But it’s

okay. Before we strip and get
in the shower, you’ll take out
your earrings I’ve come to
be so fond of (only on you).

You bring both hands up to take
them out and become ungauged,
setting the plastic bloody-bleach
colored spikes on the counter

in front of the bathroom mirror,
just beside the sink
where our necklaces
casually touch their strings.

And we don’t miss until
later in the day when I
drive you home and we
have to part ways.

We don’t miss until
we share one last kiss
in the driveway. Until
next time, when

I’ll get to see you again.



Midnight is sneaking outside
Laying in fields
Picking up bikes
That aren’t owned
And borrowing them
For a while

Midnight is a mirrored drive
Beside a lake
And walking down
Tunnels of thin trees
That have slowly over years
Formed a sort of orange shade

Midnight is telling time
By streetlights
And people out
Wandering the sidewalks
And gawking at lit up

Midnight is cold hands
Gripping the steering wheel
And going twenty miles
Per hour over the limit
And not paying any mind
To the law officer kind

Midnight is a touch away
Just a drop in a pond
To dip a toe into
A dark and grittily clean
World unseen beneath
A breathing city

Midnight is tricky
It cannot be captured
And indeed those who
Fall out of touch
Often so desperately
Try to seek its spirit

Midnight is exhausting
Looking at the clock
And realizing it’s too late
To do anything else
But exist in some hysteria
That also has everyone else

Midnight is a dream
An abstract fallacy
Psychedelia of a sort
Not ingested but felt
Walking on the sidewalk
And gawking at buildings

Midnight is omniscient
Like the air we breathe
It is wholly enveloping
As a thin liquid
That is poured over the
World of concrete

Midnight is bubbly
And it drips down
Surfaces of buildings
Its essence flows
In street gutters and
Down storm drains

Midnight is potent
Like a poison taken
At dinner unexpected
When someone hysteric
Dashes glasses of wine
With a fine white powder

Midnight is inoculation
To the day’s mortality
And a letting go of coil
Shuffling in file
To the sound of dozens
Of footsteps under soil

May I

May I

May I brush the hair
Out of your eyes
So I can see you?

May I hold your hand
In my own
So that I might feel you?

Can I hug you
Tight and close
To show about you I care most?

May I kiss you?
If only to share
And revel in your sweetness?

Would you be okay
If I saw you naturally
And let you enrapture me?

May I trace all of you
With my hands
To know that you are real?

May I take a picture
To save you
And display you?

May I connect with you
To form a bond
That I will never soon forget?

Can you be all the firsts
For me
And hold all those records?

May I daydream about you
Every day
All day?

May I feel these things
For you?
May I love you?