say there’s a whole room of people and you’re somewhere in the middle of them all.
I walk in and I see you, but you don’t suddenly become the only person in the room. god no. you become the room. you are the room."
in a long time, I create civil disturbances,
then insult the cops who show up,
till one of them grabs me by the collar
and hurls me up against the squad car,
so I can remember, at least for a moment,
what it’s like to be touched."
Van Gogh slices off his ear
to feel his body scream.
Your heart is always a missed beat
away from collapsing, from
giving up. How do I keep the words
capitalized but still whisper them
softly? How do I learn to fuck
but know when love is
The blinds are always closed.
I think that was you but
I can’t be sure. It was my hands
pulling on the string but your hands
leaving. Which one of us
is to blame for
is making to-do lists of things she has
already done. Check, check,
check, red pen bloody and new.
The dog doesn’t remember its owner
before the car hits it.
The artist calls her his muse
with his hands fingering lint in his pockets.
The artist forgets that the muse
has a heartbeat too."
It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to whatever song is playing in
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
Your good morning,
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
I want to talk about you.
Judas had been in love with Jesus.
He sent me back to my mother early, with
a note for her to explain “things.”
But no matter what anyone said, I couldn’t
be convinced that the Bible
was anything less than a love story.
(I kissed your cheek in front of them all
and in doing so, I think that I
damned the both of us. You,
to be left crucified and bleeding and
paying for my sins. Me, to be left
wandering and wanting and
never to see your face again.)"