grossbod

it was yesterday. all of boise's finest showed up at the greek food festival. I'd never seen them before
  the band didn't play, really
there was someone playing a keyboard, one of those drummachine outfits
okay, we'll just call him the drummer
and a boise's finest
playing a bouzouki
...Don't be alarmed! he cried, Don't take cover
beneath your tables and chairs, I didn't say bazooka-
  soft chuckles from under breaths
there was a bass player who just kept putting his back to the crowd
a crowd of old women & toddlers
dancing in a circle.
Did someone say FOOD? boise's finest seemed to cry from out of the woodwork
and they put on their tight shorts
to encase their sausage legs
and they strapped on their bejeweled sandals.
a little fat fauxhawked kid, sobbing
bc he'd punched a girl in the stomach & was being reprimanded
a gem in a mount rushmore at night themed tee
a gem in a giant housedress, admirable.
I snuck across the street with my beer
and hung out with the boy who's nice to me, for some reason
I had at least three square meals
I got a singlass tan
I hung out with my family. my dad put on the wall and kyle freaked out
my dad & I talked about love
he said I should never change, that I should always go for everything, like I do.
he is like me.
and he is good, he finds it
for 63 years.
I am proud to come from that.
so far june does me right
and may,
may was a thing
of me being dead & weak & strong again
and I'm happy,
  so this isn't a poem, anymore

being for the afternoon

The reorganization of dream clothes, the inevitable circle the rainbow display can make. The inevitable dismay can make. My impossible love. 

We walked along the muddy path, making erosion all the more knowable. The dogs in their short legs, prancing, or raging, or lumbering along, and our hands holding to stop feet from eroding down the slippery slope. Across a log across a creek, "the confluence, the confluence!" The brambles in my gray tights, o favorite gray tights, and a hole and arunning up and down. The freezing such running water makes in air surrounding. Muddy boots, laced up with mud, socks, pulled up to knees by mud. The muddy man riding through on his muddy bike, the lightfooted dog leaping over muddy flows. I looked around, and there, in the sun, freckles & eyes of tiger and soft midsections. The colors, and the colors. You & I in reverse symmetric eternal rainbow closet organization style. Thanks for the dreams, brains.

head over heels / sunburst and snowblind

Happiness abounds. Here, on display, a few pertinents from CONJUNCTION #7. I can't commit to its entirety. Just some lines running through my head at this moment. Sent off some in a loveletter; realizing how good I am at loveletters, how unsullied they can be through all imperfects, past or present. How good I am, and how badly I incorporate my own real life. But, no matter, sentences are worth more than given justice.

I’m so cautiously wondering if it is

about to happen for a moment

I’ve saved it for the bushes

somewhere
noticed it wonderful,

the verging of panic

It’s snowing like the grass,

(forewarning) a moment, gorgeous

Thinking a soft moist mass isn’t an exaggeration.

I try to invite plants or flour

(and a brief pause)

because it’s snowing

Then he heard a voice applied to the body.

it’s over and I know there’s no chance

in the deepest blue of relief.

Bite angrily into the darkest depths

of reality calling over.

Inflammation in despair at why even exists she.

Talk, did I think this would, and even if it did

(the exact color of sunlight foolishly),

He’d come south wearing a soft blue, tediously

interrupting in a car through the snow to be warm.

The same color of her.

Something suddenly with the likes of me.

She had high ecclesiastical sexlife; he’s got everything

else and he watched with fascination as she moved

toward prepuce.

That is supposed to fix the rest of the life?
Up there

in the world already?

She was carrying a bunch of red and orange tulips.

This lonely, lonely, so amazing.

I am clutching his fold of skin, closer to his waist.

Surrounding the person to whom you’re attracted but

who means nothing save for one hand.

Clitoris is little romantic joy

This ridiculous waste of a morning.

The collector of prepuces, she’s been with someone else.

Lies are good, she smiled magic tricks

She didn’t seem recklessly extravagant.

looks at the ground

To explain yourself
I’m glad I caught you licentious

My relationship lies are pertinent tonight and
we’d like

dissolution.

Vigorously do I know you a little bit more

an inclination I don’t have…

sometimes these ideas linger, eyes sparkle like

that natural tendency to fall asleep awhile

before underwater emeralds.

In a particular way she doesn’t touch me again,

and then over to catching the sunlight, encouraging,

looking down quietly and childish.

Couldn’t stand there, excessive interest with great sadness.

I do not know for much longer.

Sexual matters I find, something else but I remember him tonight…

salacious, obsessed, concentrating on forcing a smile.

Licentious, she kisses me closely blood
pumping lascivious

my mouth intently hot. She was lecherous and leaves, but then

I accidentally admire tulips
to her chest,

lustful and quickly allowed.

Flames on concupiscent tears,
night on the silken pink.

Trivial perfumes… a tangle of mindthorns.

But we can hear each other inside.

The discharging of love breathing around courage;

timid.

Aching in panic instant inside now.

A square with pain warm from it… tonight/ feeling

I'd want not to.

Across the lawn from loss

a circle in love with sleep

bounded by a curve

feels not Mediocre

the position of the moon
happens to days and moments

and months effective.

Being in a state perfect elsewhere. I’m the only one

who feels the urge.

I’d want to keep it still inactive

so I’m silent, reticent, judging for a reaction,

caught up in the romance of happy and alone.

Wanting to be impassive as always

and the pursuit of unreachable goals with certainty

I know obsession, foolishly impractical happy

a year or more goes by

I’m not obsessed with the pursuit of ideals, looking

at other things.

If I was obsessed capricious,

the philosophers I love

would have impulsive suicides.

I don’t celebrate quiet

Unpredictable is left for today when his eyes, in which

words and his closeness and hands are represented,

flood love.

All that, all over, combinations of pictures I don’t want.

I don’t care if he was, for instance, to suck me dry.

Care about eyes represented by a picture.

So I can suck it dry, for him. If he cares, I know.

A person to whose name it punningly alludes,

suck someone else dry.

a person with parasites (I could).

I was never so revealing.

Anything to say…

I have a strong memory.

I think treating sexual, killing time.

Living in regret and distaste,

willing to give indecent.

A chance display      you in a bed becoming enraptured

Gasp the life out of everything.

He put his arms around enjoyment of the subject,

and you remember sex

and you remember regret.

The red glow of the slow.

Stately, enraptured by a display touched.

Such a dance, and you find yourself logically.

Screamed worldly things

and imagining it’s nothing in those things which are

not regarded as the moon,

and the grass means nothing.

You will be on her side; sacred could

have never meant less.

Such a drastic change of the temporal.

Let’s not try to transcend.

(Out of respect

to the distant temporalities.)