Another vein-y forearm breakfast,
tied up in expectations and expatriation dates,
no more egg toast mornings in the sun shine,
or couches in the solarium,
just exile to boxes in boxes,
and trim exes under the moon light.

Danger fish walks into a bar,
metal on scale and slime,
a fillet knife of distance between dinner and a life of promises,
which drip drip drip down a needle of white fenced dreams,
simmered in the oil of long breezy nights, out door dogs and matching furniture.
Danger fish sips another illicitly old scotch tumbler full of Larry,
watches finger tips streak the glass from the outside,
like snowflakes in reverse and reminds me
of that one time, with some girl and hazelnut.

Waffles and Egg Sandwiches,
bacon tipped afternoons sipping espresso from a paper cup,
shaking fingers tripping over torn skin, spilling broken ink
on top of cheap paper and lust.

Mind the gap.

there is no context,
the hands do not shake nor stir,
zero calories.
—–
Nothing poems for mornings with two cups of coffee,
the day after the day after,
another evening of shoe shorn mornings and carpet cleaner afternoons.
—–
hunting and racing madden the mind.
—–
in email or text
hunting is tricky business
coffee or cocktails?

Red lights and girls with tattoos showing through their tank tops will have to wait a few more years at least.
September, September, the 15th of September?
Mebe, I cannot predict what will happen or when.
No entrails or spy glass will perform the magic, but we work on it.

or Monday too.

Staring at the ceiling,
thinking of the whip <the whip and it’s mate>
he remembers eye-bolts and tears,
the lies of laughter,
brown, green, blue, hazel eyed lovelies,
pretty pretties preening in the light,

filtered through a quilted comforter,
nights of roses and prosciutto,
running together like wine spots on table cloth,

spotted, freckled, sun burned, bruised, bitten, chafed and raw
after hours and hours of hours and hours,
spent, twisted and tangled, staring at the ceiling.

Running Towards Heatstroke,
he thinks of nothing,
not broken hearts,
not death in the afternoon,
or lazy days spent navel kissing and eating olives.

Redemption

You must be like a predator, like a wolf, you must always move forward and never look back.
-Svetlana

There is no forgiveness.

We are what we have done, and no mater where you go, there you are.

There is no answer.

“When you’re on stage the pedal is your only friend”
-VB

was Bob.

Video, as they say, unrelated.

and now for something…

pre meeting meetings
no satisfaction from here
missing catharsis

the angry reds leave a pit of post coffee stomach,
the distance is magnified from finger tips to text,
he wants to be taken with her into gentle pastures
and be made happy,
in a land of milk and honey – pasty white and over sweet.

samurai DBA
falling on his sword for joy
of sleepless nights

Would it be a better world if there was a currency for my heart?
Nickels and dimes stamped out in platelets,
fifty dollar heart valves or arteries,
watermarked from the finest banks,
savings and loans for rings exchanged and parents met over dinner.

For an atm of silent kisses stolen in the nooks and crannies at the ballet,
a fast cash button which reads “flushed from inappropriate moments in public places”
and a deposit envelope for walking hand in hand, under sea, over moon, and beach.
–
It is just a down payment.