untitled, 100220111110

1
i want her
without having to lift these wicked words
water drips from her hair
"i want her,"
but
i want her.

2
across the room
steam from the slow sliding shower door
tongue at my upper trapezius
i turn to her.

3
my head is hidden or is it dark
against her skin, against her
i cannot hear the water running anymore.

i can't sleep / i can't wake up

she rounded the corner. i was standing there with my weight on my good left leg, leaning my left shoulder into the brick wall of a so-so american restaurant. i didn't smile toward her but made eye contact and puckered my lips off to the left until she looked down at her shoes on the sidewalk. then i smiled. she rounded the corner. i was standing there with my weight on my good left leg, leaning my left shoulder into the brick wall of a so-so american restaurant. i didn't smile toward her but made eye contact and puckered my lips off to the left until she looked down at her shoes on the sidewalk. then i smiled. she rounded the corner. i was standing there with my weight on my good left leg, leaning my left shoulder into the brick wall of a so-so american restaurant. i didn't smile toward her but made eye contact and puckered my lips off to the left until she looked down at her shoes on the sidewalk. then i smiled. she rounded the corner. i was standing there with my arms spread as wide as they would go. her eyes narrowed and the corners of her bare lips curled slightly up. my eyes never left the deep black center of her's. i smell her skin the moment before she slips into my arms. then i smiled. 

xxy, again, on week 2 of the 2011-2012 nfl season

Like blood splatter
__an expensive pattern
__on paddle eternal, invisible grain

Whack
Whomp
Her voice looms against the pounding
__train, deafening wifi connection
__four bars of uninterrupted violence

Plunk
Pop
Carve the rolling sky, quick cocaine clouds
__from the teeth of the vibrating afternoon
__like too tight strings
__of a violin

Then she is gone, voice vanishing
despite intentions worse
for imagination,

The symphony tunes, unaffected
Oaken oar washed, rehooked on the museum wall.

"An Accident that Occurred in the Ring-Side Seats at Madrid, and the Death of the Mayor of Torrejon"

i imagine her at rest
propped up in her purple bra
licks of light sneaking through
her bedroom door
a mirror leans against the wall
she wants only one thing more
than to let each one in
then music
her pink lipstick like the light concealing

i imagine she dreams of dancing
loose, wet knees
strawberried hair rushing across a nose
painted fingers reach
up
to adjust the volume knob
cold toes sail across the clean hardwood floor

i imagine she rests
warm and sweating, the song fades
mirrors like smoke fill the room
the door slams shut.

[for jorie]

maybe it's an issue with vocabulary

dark with dialect and black hair, playful

the dictionary kicks up at the puddle

suddenly smaller

stack of books, covers & titles marrying

praise & anti-pith — on balance

from here with perfect warmth of gravity

concept quaint, quiet and quick

the common cold caught in a napkin

like the human condition, we mustn't cure.

[i'll wash them from her while she sleeps]

i know too much about being invited

two fingers on the thoughtless device

and the window with no blinds

the arches of her skinny little feet supporting all those dreams

i'll wash them from her while she sleeps

here are three new colors stacked up tightly packed

towering troubling hung up and visually demanding

imitating sad bruised and beautiful

bellowing bruised beautiful and sad

falling beautiful sad and bruised

the thing about being invited here

two fingers forced into the soft doorbell

beneath her ribs, she knows how the world feels here

and no one can take away her demands, her vision.

click dis shit for hot sweaty ballz in ya mouth

note on untitled, 08102011256

i am an addict; something hairy, something scary, something crawling from the shower; stay away; parking tickets are gathering on the floor; i'm beginning to embarrass myself; love's a serious drug; reading the new yorker is a chore, i subscribed for the poetry, now i'm 'enthralled' by profiles, really just scanning fiction — i live in new jersey, for christ's sake; for days the mugs remain filthy, dirty on the floor; since childhood i've been fearful about clogging toilets, especially at social gatherings in strangers' bathrooms; i think i'll stay away; caffeine is a serious drug; how often should one wash towels? linen? how many fitted sheets should one own? how many is too many rings? i am an addict; pick up the phone; i must outbox colorful, impermanent stings — now i am considered grown; i am an addict; something scared; something crawling; something begging to be left alone.

notebook scan 08092011

you have to associate memories

we identify the artifice with simple programs
extracting borders from blackness, nothingness, ennui shadows fear,
piss-colored paint; get it? here we are, wherever, beside each other and bored bored bored
so we pinch our forearms — easy — and steal little pictures of pain
sideward glances the goal is never to be happy the goal is to never stop
emoting and cradling movement.

the goal the goal the goal is here between my fingers in nothing the goal is nothing
the goal is the goal the goal the goal is to pinch your ass from all the way over there
across the clean white walls of this room.