slate sleepy streets wet
you make like a wizard
funny feelings from your fairy dust

is the wild prospect of
misinterpretations making you hard
for me like your fear of my flirt

gets me turned on?
these warm shadows sail
dumb conversations at a coffee shop
the core of you is warm and i am cold

i want to eat you
let no one else have you
tie you to my bedpost
and leave the house for the whole day

uneventful day graces
what might one say when all
the cookies are gone
make merry with marrow narrowness

the slave’s in my bedroom with
window blinds open for all to see
in shocking stark gestures
and through showering trees

my dear, where has all the poetry gone
i might answer, where the cookies
and love went, the stubbornness
of push and shove, you speak when i say you can

beg when i want you to

when the sun burns my skinny
skin off and there's nothing but
the heart beating for all to watch
the fingerprints you leave on me
compliments like poison, an agent
of all my sighs, eyes sore from first moving

quit treating me like a girl
with all your sentimental online messages
like you're afraid to touch my bones
mysteries too cheap to come by
wings to thin and fragile to fly with
holding on til July

because my sanity's getting loose

funny how it's always
been about you

the wind's through the larynx
of a world raging without us
the song's making us weep

the stage too hard to cast our swag on
fingers to shaky to turn the page

i've been kicking it with a friend
the undertone of sinister elegance
of age - the vanishing of what used to be

Friday is for fry yays, queer guys
coming at me with the gold heart
and smooth, skin tender intentions
I’d rather call all my friends

and sit around being poor and pretty
at a park

Spent all my money on comfy camo clothes
Diors and Docs
and none of them have pockets
for you

would’ve spent it trying to get to you, get me out the friendzone
but i’m good, the gleam
of spring rain incites the wetness
and half drear to outshine

but i’m doing me and making each day
mine

no i can’t change you or her
God’s wrath is disillusioning you
from hearing yourself or me
or all death’s friends

you think you can fix her
a thousand times like each plate
she’s thrown at you and each fist
she’s swung at you

and i’m telling you God won’t remember
the woman that she used to be
and the counselors won’t help you or her
but you’re a fixer man

can’t fix your back from that one time
she hit it with your old baseball bat
but you’ll fix her one day, right?