homeless Olympians on sidewalks
If I wonder
about your abscessing ideologies
and fret
about your dilapidated
theory, it’s just because
I’m fascinated with
sex and death.
Someone told me that couplet
is in every good
book, but I find
manacles of petalry clasp
much tighter.
I just fidget with simplifications
sowouldyouplease
refrain?
You are a god
without an heir.
My flesh is made of
lightning drops and
diamonds. I harbor gems
within my womb
so shred my belly
to withdraw
what you might find.
Your madness is within
my wine and your
regrets are in the ashes.
Sift through the embers
until your burial flute
begins to croon.
on a thursday when I almost went mad
rain falls in boards
and paints naked
bodies, green and full
of artifacts and war.
my self portrait is a wraith
compressed with the color of chimeras.
when we made love
naked with sweat
the triangle of your back
became clay
inside my hands.
I am malleable
from hemlock
and intoxicated with ellipses.
I live inside parentheses.
you circumnavigate the oubliette
as the river turns
a noose around the sky.
I hate the silence and
your breathing
is an umbrella holding the syrup
of dawn.
the perfect almonds
of your eyes are
passive as arsenic.
shards begin to crawl
within my mind.
I am not pliant tonight.
not like the doctrines
the mantras
from the dusty hallways
and scourged concrete
interrupted with crabgrass.
I see the yellow walls
after we made something--
I want that to be love.
silence in my ears
is neglect, the triangle
of your back splinters
as I dress to go.
the walls are speaking
but you ignore them
over the sound of my disdain.
you love my hatred
because it is preferable to
your emptiness.
you are
a broken mountain
a clogged fountainhead.
I am
the shadow of a jugular
the foam of cataracts.
We were--
