do you i
have some
memories

   of remembering

some remembering

i was when
you were

two cold outside
to walk and
we so
(staying)
stayed inside you

were very warm

and




                                             (it was so cold outside)

a short america is gruffly and shouting with the britain who's is owns the metal caffeine *** dull and shiny they suckle about and like to rambling  about the weather and the whethers and they clump to safely dryness by the wall at the little under of the eave plunking out the serious angle of its chin walloping the rain and makes a pleasant patch. they 2, the america and the britain, spitting at each others ears their voices they like to hear

hello.

you are there
you are something
i think that you are easily dreamless.

you are the white
turning over of pale morning
into your neck and the pooled freshness of your *******.

you are these two things:
my hands–which make within
themselves bloodsong and wine.

finely twined with pale wire,
your eyes rest below your scalp:
they are chips of ice–limpid; ****.

(you stir you pull your hand into my
hand i kiss over the sleeping of your
white cheeks i stroke your golden hair
i slip my leg under your leg:

I can never touch enough of you.)

wut

   wut've u beeen?weight, wait


waitin 4 u been(the mouth

(the hair the

    fingers)(inside the


)tuchin the touching
inside you the
way quick quivers
jostle in your wet wet?)

U been waiting for hands(4hands
)on your neck in your mouth

in your mouth's been waiting
4 sum fingers

4 sum lick spit fingers
(your mouth:

sum wut's

been

weighting

4 sum.    Wut?

is           is
(the way)
your
hurts hurts

me to(Dear apart

          )****(

the clenching of thy fist   )

you hands around the neck  (

'nd release the torrent held at Christ; )


tighter                        tighter
till
breathin'
can't                             (

DEAR, and
in their pearl'd unfurling
crimson run hot of burning

)
)

in your mouth full of me

(
(

at the twaining of my touch;
in the cloak of youth's cloven clutch)

hard spit thick as tongue swallowing.

up ***


down head

your hands in sunlight have often been god. And

i

have often been in love with them the way
they coilsome the body of a cup
in summer when or
(in your lap)
outside a café

neatly

you laugh

and your hands
(in sunlight)

You--


                           th--


             at--



                           im--


       elapse--




                                                dest­oryin--





                      gre--







                 ­               worms through loam fidgeting crisply
                                of fingers death

                                an inch of living

                                 crawled the pairing chilled livid night

                                 (to the moon)

                                    


                   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­        unstoppin





--g





                                         ­                    whispers




                                                    ­                  

                                             ­                                          whispers






                                                  ­             whispers






                                                  ­                                        


                                                              ­                                       whispers

do you see
     (eye have)
shadows?

they are a tiny billion streets
littered
           piling

in drifts

'bout streetlights 'bout
          stop signs   'bout
          dimly frosted pains
          of dimly glowing windows


gathered
gathered

huddling(and their hands almost touching

                  but don't

                   passing


passing

                                  )shadows


a­ tiny 1000000000

                                          










­



























                                     ­                            in the streets
          



























                   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                         




















                   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                        ,

beginning closed, opened fragile hardy meadows outward from the tumult
of absolute stillness. a skull in every smile smiles quick wry lipless grins
in every skull it smiles amongst the bodies, youth soaked dripping carnal uncarnal, it smiles whenever the voices, **** and vividly, couple and
uncouple the twains of hips(& between them it's grinning, in their pumping
force & even in the ****** of the sudden exploding creation)"it's grinning right there, and someday when you lay in last and final you will say 'hello, FOREVER'",

.































































­












                                     love me.

                                     **** me.

                                     trust me.
















































.

love (notlove)

i think you cruelly

i think you distinctly perfumed of hair

lavendermint (jasmine) stars and night                       think

you smell like cheap, cigarettes, coffee                        think

and you taste like cardboard dust and                         think

(linger ultimately fatally clinging) smoke                   think

lovenot love you i                                                            thin­k

but so comely smooth olive (skin)                                think

unthink             ­                                                                 ­drink

a perhaps summer wilt with hands maybe
like cups or bowls o' laughter running over
what drizzles o'er the numerous human
stuff by a pondsome quick pretty water
glittering succulently its most cool grasp

o'er her body from it gallops the crescents
of her lush formidable query i tousle
with my tongue like last winter i was
walking in a garden when the frost
stung my nose real hard and i was
just almost inside when i noticed how
absolutely demure the snow was
clutching the soil it like a lover it from
whom it nay would release except for
that same afternoon it rained and
all was unfrozen and loved no more
the snow the soil like this terrific

droplet of her skinny strength stabbed
with youth and running out her wounds
the ablest *** dances rushing on sturdy
limbs to snare over the cuirass of flickering
electronic flesh (my chest) and drape
supreme fair fairy dust inside each
nostril and straight to my dithering acute
brain and tingles abruptly her
belated fingers unday brushing the eaves
of cobalt with purple frilling the
edges and we repose in the cracked
bucket leather seats of my drab yellow
volvo and

                 and
                         and

there is not

                        )i have tread(where hours in you have died

flowers

                 and rushing fields of them




                 where cotton and thorn



                 )gushing


twitched a cat's eye
behind the town(



caught between hips)quickly sleeping in fur(and the tousle of its catching)

and silver moonlight grumbled stirring

(ran crimson in its thread

                                                  )


as leaping the city came to my cheeks coldly stinging with March(and remembering our body



                                                          i recall thinking:


                                                          is there more a perfect thing?

i love also
some golden light
pierceth and burning
the earth
who lays
in tremendous sighs o
                                                         Du
                   f                                      sT.

.




































                 i love you let's ****

































.

shall die who not
of Spring always?

not grass or leaves.

not the sea or
the tragically rapid
wings of
hottish wind.

not the rocks
or the
trimmly light locks
of crimson eve.

not the fit splendor
of the night
or (the who)
of, "why not?"

when shyly asks
of boys, girls ,
to part them

(in twain of pleasure's hutch
  

   )         (              where



      ,        like of Spring        ,


dying is not so

as vermillion becomes of touch     )

venez à moi, mon frère.

.























































                     "You're in love with love.

                                        You don't love anyone."













































.

.                                                                ­                         Q
                                                               ­                        u
                                                               ­                             i
                                  ­                                                              e
 ­                                                                 ­                          t

                                    ­                                                        O,

     ­                                                                 ­                       though
                                                          ­                             woh
                                                             ­                                little
                                                          ­                          ylgnis
                                ­                                                             you
                                                             ­                            era

                                                            ­                                :
                               ­                                                   soft and crisp;

                                                         ­                    won't you enter me

                                                             ­                 the gentleness (your unsound)?

          
                                                                ­                             I
                                                               ­                                 n
                              ­                                                                 ­    c
                                                               ­                            r
                                                               ­                         e
                                      ­                                               a
                                                               ­                             S
                                  ­                                                           i
                                                               ­                             n
                                  ­                                                          g

    ­                                                                 ­      by voice and unvoice
                                                         ­                  the white song: living?

                                                 O Quiet and you are so i think you are beautiful
                                                       ­  in your shoulders and in your neck i think
                                                           ­      you are increasingly beautifuler
                                                     ­                      than doused in night
                                                           ­                     and stars earth.

there is a man in a small voice with a tight hallway

he is waiting

he is waiting, his boy like dolleyes watering
in his tight voice
is small hallway

he is waiting

i will die.
the sun,
and by the way
did you know?
(i do)

in the summer it
leaps wholly freshness
into the sweating backs of knees

a yowl


a dream


a distinctly arousing



a corded and steeply ***** shyness.


it peters sharply
from girl cuts
into niceness
a cringing of night
to less darkly foil
the trees

(amongst 'em
where will sleep
me when i
cease my hands to try) roots


reachness of worms
and the rushing of oceans

wind

wind

wind


coolly teasing
with teeth so
cruelly pleasing

(upon which rise
the curving hushness
of body's plummet
isthe
falling of darkness' lushness

Rain)you enter me by the concise brutal slenderness
of your waist

you wet are thousands and mutely cringing on
my neck some

and scalp some

reeling into sleepier darkness
lark perched suddenly between

emits the frailest wings

and treads you into(nothing

my wife,

you are my flesh,
within your flesh:


            (my son)

who sleeps within you.

i love you that you are me,
and i am you;
inside your body
which sleeps beside me.

let's go for a walk i miss you how deeply and beautiful  you are  amongst
such  things  as  sagebrush,  old  mountains  and  the  wincing  silence  of
pierced by bird throats quiet it is so  quiet  inside  you i  want  to  put  my
hands in there i want to put my lips eyes and mouth forever to lay  inside
you one blue spectrum of self in no parts the whole thing and always and
forever between the cold heat of summer your body's mind is a tight song
way over the mountains in a coiling weep of  rain  that  like  rain  touches
every frond of the light forest we are inside of whose body is trees of such
dark wood even i cannot say that i know them

who writes a poem death that the world calls life God
in inimitable shades of city laughter rain and smelling
with the bulge of incessant betweens where clothed
in the clutched clefted pinch of love all boys are telling

oto
****
insideyo
uthe
hours
ofm
ybody
wouldbe
(ohpl
ease
won'tyo­u)
themost
dying
wonderfully
to
unbe

Cool. it makes me feel
(the ocean when)
words do not the lightening
of the long sky,

in undrab Spring(a body is proposed)

of flowerets and garland roses
(green at the knees
between the hips
stoking         )in profusion

their broke
colorful
tension
ringing
(the fur stroke

                  singing  )

Rise
that within
you there titans
of summer invincibly
gold stuff form'd.

Sleep
from which
shall their tumult
sing unbridled colliding
of days in heat's fold.

It is still here now, I think.
Perhaps.

The land is still.
The grass is still.
The water is still.

(the rain faintly against the glass is still.).



The earth is private in the smallness of its breathing.

It is the smallness of my son’s breathing.

I stand over him and I listen and I watch.

He breathes and the smallness of the world sleeps with him.


(my wife snores.
my daughter rustles in her crib.)


It is still here now, I think, perhaps.

your mouth is a beauty
whose word i long to pronounce
whose keenness is marigold in summer
whose almost too fragile a slit
makes the fragrance of desire
whose language is heavy and soft
and suddenly across
your face it slices
more pink than bubble gum
and more sweetly to taste
more sugared and awefull
more impossibly resisted
your mouth is too delicate a flowering
destroying sound
of which i long to pronounce

out here you can be in the land.

The snow is gracefully
in the cool churned
and dark sky.

(you can breathe)

here where
only the smallness
of yourself
can be heard.

your hands will go into the soil.

there will,
over them,
come frost.

and a flower will brace
against chilled winds
its caving stem.

you can be here
and see the toil
of the earth in every
turning of its pail *******.

you can cup to your mouth
the ember of your breath
and pass into the frozen
limb of dead spring
the **** warmth of your lungs.

you are made here,
in the land,
where you can be.

and the toiling of your breast
will pass into livid creations
of quickly eaten, hot.

you will be made and unmade alike.

you will dream of the bodies of girls.

and you will sleep between
the snow of their thighs--
pocked of rose husk
and shattered frond.

you will limp
between the
clean pillars
of their hips,
and your hands
will find within
their riven dirt
the striving root
of life.

(you can be here in the land
cold something
stirring its
magnificent hair
shaking off
the sheath
of stirless
snow...  )

And your hands will become numb.
And your lips will become numb.

and you will fumble between
their dumbness.

and the whole of you will become numbness,

(stumbling)

into the bubbling
heat of
Spring's
arched

HEAP.

taste feels to reach to
tongue
deeply between kiss

      (lipsnotlips)

where least sleeps spring
and calls by mouth

your hips to sing,

                              ,

                              ,

                              ,

                              .

"I guess–I don't know–underneath it all I'm just a romantic. I've loved (I will always love), and I suppose when I'm dead someday that will only be what's left: some vague echo of a moment I shared with someone. But really, and truthfully, I loved them in that moment.

And I will live, who knows how long, but I will live and I will carry in my heart those moments. The tasting and touching of those moments. I will hold them in my heart, and in my own way, I will always love them. Each one. Each moment and tongue.

It is sad and it is wonderful–that I got to have any of them at all, and that I got to have none of them. But that's probably on me–I'm not always the best person.  

I don't know, I guess I'll just keep trying. But please know I loved them. All of them, in their own way.

I'm sorry for who I am. I'm sorry if I ****** up. I just wanted to be happy. I just wanted to taste someone's skin and live.

Maybe tomorrow I'll die. Who knows.

Anyway, I love you. Goodnight."

it is very soft down here,

the way and

i can barely hear


              (are you talking?

            


                 i love you

it feels too heavy with people
and sounds often
in little boxes

, people

little boxes in them

where sounds

are too heavy.

i feel (body)
the way it
between my hands

performs the youth thing: life. The

                   uncouth thing, life. The

body way it
needs between hands
its.

the inexorable flinchless hurt of its marching finitely
--into bruises of hands--
its own hands.

that they might make
,by the coming together of palms

,a softness more supple than sleep
(a finite more extending than

                                    infinites deep,

guggle buggle
the skirts and muggles
meager or muddle
                                         like 2 tones
a twilight
       almost sweetly
a sweating majesty(it broke trebleing uncorked femurs
briskly pattering the swilling silt
the siltish swill
                                 )by a massive
the very sea was outward and upward and forever and ever and ever & E,V'eR;
            !
             '
            "
              .
                '
               "
            .
              ,
                   '
                        .
                  ,          
                             .  
                                        '
                                                    ,
                                                               .

in winter there escapes some

tendril of whitely bent curlsome
vapor


                  overcoming


crispness into immediate sunlight
a twig of life

                   glowing

(nothot


                                                          )IT


barrels toylike against the sea
and is eaten quickly into mute
indelible



                      No Thing

her mouth becomes smoke
says, "                     ."
(outside a bar;
somewhere there is a siren
mutely i remember my
hands and putting them
into my pockets)

curls and splits
up into quickly
nothing vapor

between 2 cherried
lips–dissipating.

(it is hard and quiet
from the alleyway
smoothness emerges
a cat )

into which bathes
the earth in neon

and the night yawns out
into starlight warm air
and
the thick smell of jasmine
and beer

loving tried sorrily a girl
to make out
of too much whiskey
something which

loves it too.

white dappled easy
O intensely fragrant autumn,
you are the sun who
enormously tilts its brazen

shoulders 'pon the neat
and drowsy mountains. A Titan,
that toppled o'er of bronze,
gild the mute band o' e'r pleasant span;

with pulsed nonsense
of hulking brinded hide,
that wreak'd of tress,
fit where all souls seek to bide:

that wherein all sleeping's never done
(and Virgil comes to lead,
t' whence health's for ever spun           )


                        .

"Did I forget dying?"

asked who

hung with livery
of silver youth spun
by rouge turning
of night into day                                    ". Perhaps
                                                                                    "

or because suddenly
remembered summer
was sluiced in body

of hot water around
slim ankles–the opening

of every small vein–
rushing to mix with
motes of dying laughter

the very petite and
fragile model of thy self                        " one day when
                                                                     the incorrigible
                                                                     rough noose of
                                                                     Spring has tightened
                                                                     about every gold
                                                                     trimmed loose laden
                                                                     goosenecked whiskey
                                                                     minute of kiss *******
                                                                     between wide thighs
                                                                     tear tumbling and
                                                                     blubber wonderful
                                                                     life shall with death
                                                                     's vacant fingers make
                                                                      a flower of thy body
                                                                      renewed at the lips
                                                                      of thy grave every
                                                                      morning pearled
                                                                      in dew
                                                                                                         "

.































































­










              "You taste really good."




















































.

the more less you (than unsuddenly writhing
with magic)i write for is really not and too
bad 'cause(taking with neat blackest fingers: me)
if you were i would swear a poem of fast
intricate roses(who amongst coyly hidden
scythes take)that swell with scents as
nearly radiant and folded as thy own scent
of swelling(so please waiting too long don't to
finding) enchanted nothing: rolls and rolls

of stink

let me tell you what i love
i love the firmest new heat
of Spring's body leaping
totally March with the gushed
remnant of Winter's nowless
snowed figure. i love taking
the rough cherry of life between
my lips and i shove my tongue
forking the swollen damsel
of its prime juice until bustles
the marvelous uncouth sticky
sweetness over my lips coils
her lips and every sense of
mine cooly explodes in the
dapper shade of apple trees
.

begin again
it comes starting
the end, again, begins
newness pressed between
dawn and eve is glued your
fresh smell atomized an instant
and mingles in the dancing dust
flitter mumbling pitter pattering
diminutive motes bump and
carouse in tousled hunks
of light

what do dreams meet flowers  ?
whose
             fair

hands seriously complain with

graves straight upright grey
in tight rows    ,

some effulgent rill of daisy
suddenly the earth breaking

the stiff silence of
FALL

this moment is drunk
and occasionally says
dark things of remembering

about pushed apart legs
in April when it was alive
and something loved it more
than living–cooing even

into its soft ear vaguely
promises of forever and
keeping through death
its hands and lips and feet

     (whoosh)

but goes through the mouth
and nose hot dollops of dreamless
wine occluding speech, taking

tightness and smashing it over
the head with a memory of
a coy poem that tasted like the
sea in your mouth when

it sat on your face and
it was the only time it was ever
–truly–
                

                Alive.

by this the world i mean the flesh:
the lip eye
bone sinew
ear mouth
and nose;

i mean the nerve
over buzzed
by impingement;

the shocking
and profuse
frock of the
skin,

tingling at
the rush of breath;

i mean the cold
and cadaverous
welching of
the lips not formed
about spent gas,

in rutted exersion
of its yearning atom.

(the bone and hand
are at once in play
with the muscles,
which form and
gesticulate the self;

they make as unmake
and the world lists between
their span--

gripped tightly
in the 1 moment
and let idly
in the neckst)

i have formed
myself
my hands
around the
shafts of roses

and i have never been
myself less or more
than in those moments
neither being absorbed
nor voided of presence

but only being
the hand
around which
the within
holding
the presence of a rose:

i lift
to my nose
and eat
the exsellent
PoLLEn,

            .


                   ,




        .














                                   ­     !

icanfeelsome cold
(hard birds between)
in Portland
there is a red brick building
building between
the hard cold
and some birds

(      i  can  feel   )