You are comfort, soot, poison and professionalism.

Satanic and executive.

Certainty and mystery.

You are innocence and experience.

You hide your stains well.

You are a new moon and an old star.

You are where we find souls, and where we send the bodies.

You are absence and abundance, the beginning and the end.

I want to cut off my crusts

Every piece of me that's been burnt

from getting too close to you.

Every piece of me that's been darkened

By my desire to feel warmth.

I want to cut them off

and toss them in the air

Snatched by a seagull

Devoured and gone.

"home king"

"broad ford"

"august heritage"

Enitsugua

Drofdarb

Yrneh

Kingford Heritage -

Homebroad August

Suguadarb, Eh? -

Enitdrof Yrn

so...

do

you

yearn

to

crack

the

code

of

this

old

soul's

riddle

?

the

answer

is

somewhere

in

the

middle

.

I've got brains

like antique floors

I built each one

on the one before

I use all three

but they don't agree

One of them

wants to love you

Another one

would love to club you

I guess my old natures

move like glaciers

The fish became a lizard

The shrew became an ape

Will the ape become an angel?

The higher that we climb

The more the ladder sways

I'm the bastard child

the one who got

the head of Einstein

and the soul of Pol Pot

there's no compassion

but I can split the atom

Better give me a microscope

for a different eye

Better give me a telescope

for the inward sky

and a ladder leading

up from Eden

The fish became a lizard

The shrew became an ape

Will the ape become an angel?

The higher that we climb

The more the ladder sways

If Ramana Maharshi

came from clay

there's more to evolution

than a little DNA

Cut off the moorings

to the inward ark

Aiming it into

a question mark

The fish became a lizard

The shrew became an ape

Will the ape

become a Mother Teresa?

She came from clay

There's more to evolution

than a little DNA

The ocean turned over in beats and bass, and the sand moved in the roll of a tongue beneath her stomach and hips, and the rest of the beach gazed at her there while her headphones blasted Modern English and other post punk ’80s bubblegum resurrections. The smell of Coppertone and Pacific had married above her body and pinned my vision on the horizon behind the top of her perfection. I ran my middle finger down her knuckle and she smiled beneath a shroud of wild hair with sweat at the roots.

Back at the house we made it halfway up the stairs before my tongue was up her ass and she was grabbing my hair. Her palms leaned forward and pressed into the carpet while I held her legs off the ground, the grip of my hands on her hips, and I watched her body bounce off our sex while she bucked and came, her hair in her face, her perfections hard at their tips. I arched my back and shot into her and we were frozen there like statues bleeding sweat, my love for her a poem I could never write.   

i smell like smoke,
and poetry, and all the things
that move in slow motion, far beyond
your understanding.
i look like
a good fuck, and an hour of intelligent 
conversation, when you can’t get it up
or speak or think clearly,
and i want you most
when i’m on my way home
in the evening, when my eyes
can’t seem to adjust
to the darkness, to the blare 
of the streetlights, to your
voice singing out the window
from my passenger seat
because it’s not there. i have chewed
my fingers to the bone
waiting for your back 
to arch and straighten, for your knees
to lock, for you to carry me
from your couch to your bed
at two o’clock in the morning. 
i found love in your coat pocket, under
back porch stairs, behind
six different sets of bleachers, but i 
left it in all of those places, and
i wrote our initials on every surface 
i could find, on bathroom stalls, 
traced it on the underside of your tongue,
but it’s gone.
your bedpost will never have enough
notches 
to count all the times
that you fought tooth and nail
to have me 
but still never fought 
to make me stay.