in memory of

I was thinking of all the mausolea
and each time is like the last, in only the fact
that it's artifacts collected, revered solemnly, or left to sit

the turquoise bandana I got you to trade me for my red
and then insistently switched, post shower, pre bed
in an effort to save our scents on each
to leave with the other after.
That turquoise bandana, worn by you, smelling of tiger balm,
and your body
well I wore it to a thing and we all took molly
and it was a million degrees and stagnant as a coffin
so I put it in the freezer to wear as a neck-snake
which I handed around,
and after
you were nearly overwhelmed by the others.

The pink lighter I got you to trade me for my orange
the one others pick up, light things with,
and I'm staring
for the fist that clutches
for the pocket it's sneaked carelessly into,
for the rotation of it paired with the bowl.
When no one notices, I snatch another lighter and pair it with the bowl
insisting, to all who ask, I can't find it? use this one.
Nearly overwhelmed by others.

The strength left on my bed of you, of us
the pillow your sweated head rested on, your neck
pungent,
pungented on
the sheets writhed in by you
the net, wound around by you
and my friend, my companion, someone other than you
naps there.
and you were nearly overwhelmed by another.

And then, simply, the objects left
the empty can of lemon la croix on the edge of a tub
from our shower, the
half-full jar of water (bulgarian yogurt) resting on the sill above the bed
these are not overwhelmed by others
these are the last touches of you
your prints on my life, my room, my house of intimacy
These are the relics, the artifacts of my mausoleum.
These are the last bits of your touch on me, now.
These are proof to me that you were in fact, you
here
earlier
with me, in total

these are the only tribute I have
And they fade with each movement of the others, of another,
  but you will not fade
                as they fade.

poem(s) for breathing

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating.
my breath hasn't come in gasps,
and then I am up and breathing again for a moment;
I am no longer breathing in hefts.
his shallow breaths,
guilty breath
is like a breath
the true breath I utter is not to be used
sighing, breathing,
I'm breathing him in as much as I can.
and his breath, too smells good somehow,
I'm breathing little smoky breaths into the pillow.
my breath was caught,
combining to form words of thick breath,
the sound of my breath echoing over a postcard.
every breath I breathe a worse one.
aubergine hair and scented breath & shoulders & neck...
Then we breathed in our cigarettes, wide-eyed.
He began to emit short breaths and low moans.
in the same breath.
and his breath I disliked,
breathing into my neck,
just breathing, slowly, slowly, slowly.
and he's nearly breathless.
Now we can all breathe sighs of relief!
His breath I dislike and his lips are soft and formless.
That burning heartchoke and breaths of slight ecstatic jubilation.

from momentos preciosas

and he chuckled and breathed like a maniac and he understood.