we’re bathed in starlight
the approaching Atlantic
somehow separating our future selves
tearing our vessels apart
he and I are both gossamer
compared to what’s ahead
but more so my friend
as his step is really a trot
as we are two different kinds of beings
still I feel something every time our eyes meet
in doing this we simultaneously slip on ice
then catch ourselves
I with my feet
he with his paws
and so we continue like nothing happened
waiting while walking to encounter
the vast and inconceivable ocean
although he does not see this yet but smells
the sea’s salty breath
he is content
in the sparse topography of this crest
soon we find the end of land
I hold him in my hands
against the backdrop of blended sky and water
feeling his heartbeat
and wondering if Orion’s Belt is proof of eternal life
Tangle inky eyes by lifting
mental blinds. It’s in
the sunrise of your spine,
which is bent but not broken.
Spend intimate fluid and
let it all soak in.
Mending liquid wounds
with booze, so typical
of you, meaning me,
(since this is the only
way I know how to
speak to myself).
In foreign air where your ancestors breathed
no longer than a century ago, you
comforted a belle whose fiance was
lost in twisted charred metal. Look back and
think about how that should have been your fate;
the poison in his system only tasted
sweet for so long. When words came out of his
mouth the acrid smell of death lingered, and seminal thoughts
rush back through your mind and below your spine
in tidal waves of lust, touching thighs under
the table, that was enough of a contact
in order to transfer the tension of
a dead man and his now tranquil lover.
Accidental gravity remains as
the only not so distant memory.
Yes, I am one who wastes far too many
of my sparse thoughts on the daily mundane,
so who am I to offer remedy
for beauty sprouting seemingly from plain
brown eyes? I watch as you try to get high
off residue, and you, my love, are far
from pathetic. Our flame is dignified
while licking cannabis in lieu of water.
Your tepid tongue intertwines with mine and
the ashes of my flesh combine with spit,
creating words I never thought I’d send
from my mind let alone my mouth and it
feels good, us. We felt good, we’re still good
at times, yet our mouths have been filled with blood.
whenever it’s about to
your bones get
spending the day
you were in the back of
where the usual strangers walk.
sitting, listening to Spanish
but through a boombox
in the center of Rittenhouse.
on the corner
Big Pete play chess like
an invincible African king.