more of the same

i walk in and you're chattin
and complaining about one word
answers. after fifteen or so minutes
i have enough, say look, you called me
but if you're busy i'll just go now.

we talk about you and a book, your
new song .you say i wrote it for my sister
(just to be sure i don't read anything into it) but after i give
you grief anyway, remembering the things you said to me in love
and in fights. how they become the same moment,
like, now, and how darkness
eats at the moon's face with black gangrene. i still remember
how i fell in love with your gun poem and the way you put yourself
into every pome you read like "marry me rat" carved
into wet cement. how it could live
so many mayfly lifes. still remember your eyes
insisting that no, you don't believe
in love, whatever
that means and how many years
you have to live thru to gain that insight.

i wanted you
to let yourself wash
over each event, each line of writing
backwards and forwards but you just said
i can't believe you put me in the same pome as that fucker

so when you told me he wasn't capable of leaping
it's not like i didn't already know it
sorta, more like i wanted
my mind to control your matter/his/their/expansion
of the blood vessels between left and right
brain, chemical reduction and how you want to pretend
it's too simple. tired of crash helmets and roofies
when i masturbate you said
towers and things that fall from them, example
your ego / my messages. get a room. get a room.
"it's like, invisible love?
how do you cuddle with that?"
















&










i have a lipstick the color of dried merlot on white satin.
i stain my mouth then wipe it off
add some lower lip.
the end of the smoke dark with drapes
from oscar wilde's parlour tricks.
death doesn't interest me much i like
my answers kansas city style.
follow the nautilus to naught and it still reads
"poing". or point. depending on the insider
trading as it developes over luv street.
you want a cig but i'm not lending so you want
to quit smoking. you grab my pack and dump
them into your hand then break them all.
but you don't like it
when i go buy another pack and pack
your clothes in the dumpster like i did
when i was stronger and another person
not the one with these
memories that hang off wires
strung between unused phone
poles because satellite
communication is the in thing. we both eventually
succumbed to the hipness for one reason or another
and tumours line our future, just like everyone elses.
ah well, you remind me, wouldn't want to be the last two
people on earth anyway, not with way our tubes look.
funny how you only believe in some miracles.
pick and chose which ones resonate and which
can be safely dismissed.






















































*






dear reader,

are you jack at all? did we lie together
thru all those pages in the tropic of candles motel
clean sheets every day, cool, white, bottomless
barrel waiting to be filled with pregnant
pauses and red ink as defined by semiotic tyme?
in your ps you finally mention how you read
only the first two lines of anything and form your critique
from the outside in. you offer
to show me how you do it, but i'm caught
in the stream of cumulonimbus holding kettlefish at bay.
i understand the need for brevity. time eats us up. how does
nat do that thing where you make the metaphor be the phor?
maybe it's sposed to be the meta. maybe that's my prob.
you'd say the key but i like to pick locks. even tho kansas ideal.
tornado tearing at

a buffet of kittens, maturing in my bottom drawer. today the you
is me watching flailing front paw flowers in stripes of grey and orange.
prophet is the hungriest, finds mom again.
latches onto food, calls it home. i just want someone to mention
the reciepts and hey did you pay that water bill or what
could we have for dinner. finchy told my son she wants him to take
care of himself, you noticed my goneness, the absence of guidance
the way smoke curls up into itself before melting
into the slat of sun
as it escapes the venetian bland.
today and everyday the you is
what...
love falling like rain from the sky and your upturned eyes
with morphing colors inside a crow 's fancy
detailed purple sticky trip
or a leaf, you are, in some season, the one you grew into
before falling over the endless
way it curls the
wave.