I feel like our relationship
was too short.

Too many times did I take
your
******* in my fingers
and listen
for the ocean.

Your stomach
was fired in a kiln,
and still tastes like heat.

In your bed
we made out,
with t-shirts on,
and I slid my fingers
underneath cotton
because I wanted to
play in your belly button
and work the clay.

I know that you like to
Dance in fields
with cotton
on your lips
and talk to God.

Talk to him
in a subterfuge
of light,
and not in the marrow
of darkness.

Our relationship was too short,
because we snuck liquor
into dark theatres,
and left bottles in the aisles
like empty artillery.

We kissed in your car
and never cleaned up.

I had breakfast over at your house once,
and met your mother twice.

And it seems the alpine
was too much for me,
because I never took you to the mountains
even when you asked.

Carolyn,
when I see you
again,
I will take you to Appalachia;
as far from the ocean
as we can humanly get.

Carolyn when I see you
again,
I will not eat the fruit
of the fired bowl,
and will not
think of playing
with clay.

I want a Monte Carlo
with woodgrain
that drips
lacquer
like liquid
metal.

How sweet is the sound
of droplets
of wetted desire
and my chucks
dotted
by the bark
of a melted,
condensed,
glossed
and
digital
earth.

My Alpine's
make bus-drivers nervous,
with their hallways
full of a thousand faces,
staring down
at me
as I crack holes
in the concrete
big enough
for a squadron of buses
to fall into.

My Carlo
should have two things
in bunches,
it should have
the smell of a woman.

The smell of her
stale mouth
that lets loose fumes
in grated vents.

The Carlo's
smell should rattle me
like fences
that jingle when I brush against them.

Secondly,
my Carlo
should
be serious
and black.

All black.

I want my Carlo to have
opals for headlights
like the smeared *** of a firefly
or the eyes
of a panther.

My Carlo should be so beautiful
that it takes me back to the forest,
to the forge,
to the hotel,
to the hospital,
to the altar,
to a place of peace so loud
that I could take it between my fingertips
only to break it in a purr.

Andreya,
will you marry me?

Will you let me make
nests of sticks
and bubblegum
wadded together by spit
in your arms?

Please say yes,
I have drifted
into *******
of your voice,
and spurn the day,
when I  cannot hear your voice
that rips my heart
to
peices.

Black girl
with eyes
like coals in snow.

Black girl with super-dark skin,
that just  
makes
me
cry.

Black girl
with long
curly hair
littered with light.

Black girl
with lips like slices
of wet wings,
lips thin
as
happiness.

Black girl
with hazelnut eyes
with a grey
bent.

Black girl that knows how to make
me so happy in the cold,
with her closet-full of words
that can make a ******
think of warm weather.

Together we meet
in the woods,
at the cabin front-steps
taking turns
twirling
each other's cheeks,
touching each other's
lips
and I just want you to know
that there are no dreary
days
ahead,
even when it is cold
and we have to hold
each other
to hold
everything
inside.

Because we might just burst;
explode
in a thousand limbs climbing like spiders.

You could take
thunder apart
with your teeth.

Lightning
doesn't know
the light
of
your
mouth.

When we finally talked again,
me and Gnat
were cordial.

I was finally happy
that she
was
happy.

She said,
"I really am in love this time."

And it felt good
because
I'd known she'd finally
found it.

And that the verses
of my poetry
couldn't reach her,
like the symphony
of the exquisite
symphony
of his
could.

I love Gnat,
because
she is in love
and
happy.

I find happiness
in the fact
that a girl
I constantly ****** over
is now in for the ride of her life;
a ride full of ups and downs
highs and lows,
but a love
that can resist
a rollercoaster.

I am finally happy for the love
of my life,
and they don't tell you in the movies
that you can be happy for the love of your life
when they're in love
and staring down the
barrel of eternity
not thinking of it as a gun
but
thinking of it as true
real
love.

And that's what Gnat has.

And I'm so happy.

I have taken
too many shots today.

one.

two.

three.


four.




five.

And I was gone.

Cheap **** on my mind,
drunk as ****
at six at night.

I stay drunk.

And I hate myself,
so that's why
I stay drunk.

Where is the little marshall?

Where is that kid
full of romanticism,
and hope,
because my mom's
had me watching
the way we were
and
dance with me.

I tell girls the truth,
and I guess so many times
they've
heard
it
as the opposite.

But my heart is full of that ****,
full of taking in love
and on the assembly line
of my
arteries
trying to hold them,
protect women,
keep them from guessing,
becuase all along,
my romanticism
wasn't *******.

It was a process
of my mother trying to make me into a man
that wasn't him,
wasn't my father.

So yea,
my ****
may sound played and irregular
but me
caring for you
is nothing
but
regular.

I can't lie to a girl,
I can't fib
on my heart.

Because romanticism
has been there
from the
start.

My mother is to blame
for
my shotty game.

Game
is when you're trying to ****,
and
I can't knuck
with that.

I tell girls how I feel,
truthfully,
even if it sounds dupey.

This poem has turned into another love poem.

I wanted to toss
something,
I wanted to feel
your body
like
palm prints
on my windowshield.

Write
"I HATE YOU"
all over me.

I can take it.

I've got thick skin,
but my heart
is shallow;
you could touch
it
before your fingers
grace
the pleather
of my backseat.

I fake it alot.

Some girls think I'm macho as ****,
but really,
at my creamy center
I **** them
like they are splinters.

Just trying to get it out.

So let's back out.

What's a splinter
to a whole human?

Nothing.

Nothing but an irritant
that itches,
when the computer
is on a high-wire
glitch
and these girls climb telephone poles
thinking
they're fixing
me.

When really you've boled
a hole
in everything
and climbing poles
gets them farther
from my core.