the part of my body that fell asleep

a part of my body fell asleep. I'm waiting for you to fall asleep. I take back that it's all the way all the way. you come, we stay awhile. I'm not meaning any of it!
Let's get real!
I made sangria at work, I washed the dishes, I danced and I sang.
I sent text messages, I thought about cigarettes, about my new dresser, about secret love affairs.
I thought about dating
versus not dating
I thought about my white legs in kneesocks
I ate steak with bits of glitter on it.
I do not mind at all eating glitter.
Did you suck up some of its MAGIC? I was asked
I thought, how do you know
I said aloud, It's complicated
with a scoff-aloud
I thought, when is the last time I made anything?
I'm making sauerkraut. but that's not what I mean
I am trying to translate this into meaning
to translate the wine + lemonade into magic
your hiccups into silence.
I think about the days
where we'll walk around the swamps
the sun filtered through
oaks
and across the ridged backs
of saw palmettos
feet in the sand
fightless mouths
wordless gestures
apologyless.

these are the objects around me,
these are my surroundments.
the translating winds in me
of course,
only wishes still
no magic
yet

new orleans

the universe is trying to tell me

the universe is telling, urging me

that here, it only gets bad before it gets worse

that these brainjolts are the spark

because, come on now I'm an engine

  so

let's hotbox the cadillac

let's mildly check that sunset from a cornereye

let's put those rugs we found in the upper upper cabin bedroom

  on the 200 yr floors in our new apartment

let's ride the goddam streetcar

admire the great muddy

crack exoskeletons in the dingy dim dreamed-of divebar

curtains of smoke drifting lazily

we'll sit around, sit about

we'll sit all over the place

fantasize about the escaping from city life

eating sandwiches on pontoons

we'll meet fat new bugs

and that rich-weather

the I'm-holding-you-now weather

let's choke on humidity

on coffee by the emptying

let's fishtail around the festival goers

and get wealthy on bourbon

let's get tall

taller than whatever buildings

and we'll crush the catacombs & crypts

slaughter the sarcophagi 

mush the mausolea

turn bones to dirt to under our fingernails to our mouths in our gullets

& reproduce it all through our skin

respirating 

and then we'll watch a jazz band

  and we'll make fun of the saxophone

and we'll hear some blues on the street

  and look wildly about, calling out names

and maybe we'll drown

or blow away

or 

or

or

maybe 

  maybe we'll really like it there

a poem for lips

from crepuscular orations

the last kiss, the mouths & lips.
those lips.
his huge lips smacking for no reason.
his lips... his mediocre hypochondria
on my lips, on my genitalia, on my beings.
Your lips & your height aren't going to be enough for me.
Your lazy lips letting themselves be,
his lovely full lips and curly dark hair.
Where mouths biting and lips everywhere,
like the flat lips of a fish
but what if I reached across the bar there and touched his lips...
This is lips are awesome, oh, why don't I have thick, full lips just for this purpose...
using my mouth and tongue and lips as they're meant to be used.
My mouth and lips and tongues over his,
my lips are sealed.
What's with the seven little kisses on my lips?
Lips in slight smile.
Lovely full lips parted,
his breath I dislike and his lips are soft and formless.
His lips want to make someone fall in love with him.
He uses lips with what they are and tongue sparingly.
He kissed me very softly on the lips and I saw animated triangles.

hello, beautiful

Why? Because my blood is thick. I have all these tortured organs, I know it. I make them whipped. They ache, but with smiles across them. My sweet little heart getting big on itself. Making hard itself. That tumescent little thing. My mouths filled with apologies which fall out and disappear on a breeze. No one will hear! not even my own opened ears. My filthy fingers reaching for yours. Your cups in mine. Mine own overflowing. The quiet cold, my heartattack building, the mossy breeches of the nailed fingers, traipsing, traipsing toward yours. Yonder fingers tracing over mine mossy knuckles. But this is love, no? shall we argue? Nothing in me is for an argument. I give up, relentless, restless, accepting, open, whole, heartedly, whole. The whole hole filled with heartblood, gushing, retracting, sucking itself off. Never relenting, never detumescing. The various plaids of my outershells, my chitinous fibres. My camouflage, our matching stripes and shades. I will be there, you know it. I will scrape you off, when you need it. I will sing when you like me, I will look when your eyes are away. And still keep it when they turn back towards, inevitably. Do you still read me now?

today is for the mouths conjoined

Today is the difference. Recrudescence. The beginning and the making new. Early yet, wet hair in lavender, leaving lavender sprigs behind the ear as a note. The warmth of a house, the windows shut up unlikely, unlike I, usually, tend to be, or to want.

It is enough, to want. I won't try a thing, and the omittances will remain things of doing, will remain the regular occurrences. The ways in which to do it, to make it. What I am making? a promise at myself, selfsame promise made of months. to read, to drink in the words, to eat & ingest the thoughts about them. And distractions weigh heavy, for to sit elsewhere than this bed on this morning is to say, too much is doing. I want not but to drink & eat & swallow & savor your words and notices, and to share and feed it in conjoined mouths.

yearn at the corn moon

In the tempts of maize, I attempt to weave around. Maze around in brightest-lit coldergrowing night. Chicha de jora, milk substance, strawlike color. In the americas of the opposite, tantalizing hemisphere it is drunk from a maize fermented by mine and your own ptylin enzymes in our open mouths, our readiest salivas. How it is true, then! The wild yeasts yes, but how forgettable is that of you, of us! Our own bubbling, budding abilities. We have within us, the powers of the distillation. Mine in yours, and mine in mine. My saliva in the fruits of earth, my burbling beings in the taste of a large white moon.

could have been some vocabula affected me

In an example of ample defenestration, I watched aflutter down my little wills and ways. 

If I could have, I want to

Events of a week: evenings, everflowing aways 

my tempered little heartsac. 

Standing, platformed at hours between earlymorning & latenight, darkhair in a face which I wouldn't let wipe away. I body and limbs, hot face parts, mouths. 

Sweat-ed.