untucked

in a metro stop. pull out a kaleidoscope. and look through the tint of skin and bones. freckles of margarine. and golden chains. and an untucked shirt. so perverse. it makes me smile. epiphany of the minds. so seductive.

i cringe. and i smile. and i fan my flesh. i lick my skin. the salt of sweat. so soothing in the sun. the green of pearls. on my delicate saliva. i love it. it should rain on my neck. and twirl down my spine. a mezzanine concourse of river and flood. of a viral battle of ear drum and eye lid. this biology of intercourse. and divorce. and hermitage. this psychology of glamor. a glint of trapezoids. so many lakes and ponds. they intersect in virulence. and matrimony. for what is this union of souls? where is the soul? point it to the world. point it to your god. is god a soul? a soul of a soul?

what is within theater is worth pondering. an act. many acts. hurricane winds. and anonymity. masks. so many masks he wears. and cosmetics. and the cosmos. churning around. his lips are pale. body frail. and there is a quiver of manhood rave. motion pictures move in the city of winds. coffee cups of pearl. and a bronze menagerie. the bangle seller paradox. they turn to soot. and ash of ravens. so ravenous. it twists and tumbles in love. the love of legends. the love of man to love a soul. to hope. to goal. to decorate. to favor. a favorite. to shade the rain. from sun and moon. from the century of heavens. putting the dog to sleep. a melody of drums. beat. stick. a carryover project from the sand boats. they break on vapor. and nicotine. addiction. my love. how does the maniac explain. this wasn't me. this wasn't me. i swear. this was my body. my mother's sperm. my father's egg. the technology of semen. in plastic. so fake. you make a soul. if this were real, man made soul. where was god? an ancillary vase of whispers? and to also say. memory men. where are the sea shells? where are the brains of those halogen lamps?

the question. in philosophy. how informal is belief. and the ethic of ethics. time will spray. a sapphire tale.

sigh

i wanted to go up to you. and say. your eyes are beautiful. so green. against the pale of your skin. rosy and ripe. to look into your eyes. they look like mirrors. like pieces of green glass. through which you can see the world. the love. the desire of fairy tales. a treble in your eyes when you look at me. wondering. who is this awkward stranger. staring at my eyes?

i am at a loss for words tonight. i keep thinking about your eyes. it makes me want to cry. to tell you how beautiful they are. but i shall be appropriate. we have rules. i guess. 

doors

often times. in the city of green electricity. there is a pulse. an earthquake. a wave. that ballets and pivots on water blades. rolling stones and skipping bases. lamp posts wrapped. in petals of caramel ash. in the tunes of idle tales. door after door. wood after wood. and what goes behind. is a question for our children.

telling the child. behind those doors. behind the wood. the foundation of your lips. slipped into asinine existence. for sex and categorical sexuality. honeydew and molten wax. merged in sweat. in erotic violence. in a monochrome of desire. in a cardigan of love. so smooth. so soft. like cotton pearls and dandelions. afloat on clouds. clouds of ink. streaks of smoke. building pyramids. killing men. with ivory skin. you are man. you are greed. you are power of the thrones. you are the truce of dimes. and diamond coquetry. you are the opium of a non-admitting category of volatile experimentalism. women, they say. born as you may be. your womanhood is acquired. the window of exchange is narrow. there is the trans-identity. there is the volatile pivot. hurling sweat. and chewing rust. and behind closed doors. what power you wield. little child. what power. what is it about the maleness? what is it about femininity? Why the feminine needles. shaped like a telephone. shaped like a violin. or a muslin boat. little drummer girls. defeatist in their vibe. they careen behind doors. voluptuous philanderers. he asked. is man meant to be the idealist monogamist? on Darwin's toes? did the union of souls exist. before the coupling of questionable catechism? no, they said. i quietened. this was cancer. what kind of anomaly? so waxy.

behind those doors. men sharpen souls. woodcutters smother saliva on bottles of wine. and whine for hours. sometimes they joy. laugh and smirk. make chandeliers with milk. and in the photo shop. they dissolve a humility behind closed corridors. faculty clubs. faculty of an estranged dissonance. raise your child. and bite your clocks. behind closed doors. they sing songs of love.

pause

for all i see. microphone lips on daffodils.

a time that came. you know. when the thought of the other set a trill. a beautiful flutter in your heart. you don't know how to explain it. what it is. this attraction. the latent feeling of i want you. but i'm not ready to tell you yet. what if. what if you don't love me back? what if the first time we held hands. grew out of politeness. while you waited under your skin to say. never come back. i don't want you back. what if at the pier by the river. while drinking eight glasses of white wine sangria. you laughed and joked. and looked at me. only to tell yourself. this is not the one. he is not the one. you said. i want to go to the bar. with you. i swallow a gulp. no, i'm not comfortable right now. why not, you ask? i want to touch the moon instead. and what if you decide. this is it. but you cannot tell me anything. cannot tell me to leave, because your politeness. your temporary niceties forbid you from doing so. and then the dagger came with your cold shrewd ignorance. you feigned business. the secondariness of my existence, so obvious in the wake of the day. evenings spent. waiting for a text. a phone call. no response. no reply. that gentleness on your lips. that i touched in the bedroom. says today. dude, i don't have time right now. this makes me gulp a second time. there is this hankering. this lingering from the moment i met you. i told you that evening. i will support your decisions. all, other than the one to smoke weed. and you say. at the avery fisher. you hear xylophone melodies in your blood. a harmony so intense. it makes you cry. like the white water hymnals. it makes you want to spring in the air. and latch on to the treble notes waving to the lilt of crystal chandeliers. and the musicians. you are one.

but you make me cry. you make me stop my life and think about you. this beseeching in a city where sex is free. where amour is a ternary conceptualization. which is not to say that love is lost. not to say that when i held your hand, that lonely evening, i didn't feel anything. this armor around my discreet emotionality has destroyed a dozen souls. i told you that. and you smiled. and shook your head. laughed at the moon. at the fresco of the glimmering night sky. and then you kissed me. rolled over, and kissed me again. and i kissed you back. 1901. the beginning of an odd train of rumbling awfulness. they used to say Madison men don't know how to love. or love too much. tie my knuckles and kiss my lips again. what have you done? this circle of breaks. and bleeding hearts. remember how it felt when one did that to you?