from the well of your mouth

to wash through me

fill me

with the matter of your spirit

tell me,

did we connect?

our faces flat

on a screen that distills contact

into distance?

the curve of your back presents itself

to the nape of your neck,

hair, the smell of wet stone,

forehead, flesh-covered dome

resounds with story,

rounds of eyes sculpt

an intention – shuttered in sleep,

they swing open at dawn,

as you lay on a furrowed bed.

and because i grow numb

without you at my side

i will tell you

how my feet feel on the floor.

i thirst for words

from the well of your mouth

to wash through me

fill me

with the matter of your spirit

bring us all back together

bring back the whirl

of dervish conversation,

bring us the summer

of our intermingled breath

bring us back to that

remember us

re-member us

deliver us

march 28, 2020

my body has an asphalt aroma.

i'm idle and my fuel tank,

a shot glass, is in the gutter.

outside table

is set with elbow,

fist on cheek, book

of cracked pages.

i watch this scene on the wall of my skull:

my brain, a clod of tendrils in search of a plot.

there is no place to root

in the exposed isolation of the road,

a dead ringer for the physics of chaos.

the shade of an oak is a collective memory.

i glow metallic in the ultra-violet sun.

i've hit a possum and the road, built

with no regard for obstacles,

continues its tail-pipe regret for the shy and blind.

drone of tires rolls out mother's predator pie:

a recipe for chainsaws and parking lots

to expand the rush hour of denial

and shorten the proximity

of stand-up comedian to botched executions.

once deflated, roadkill reveals its broken bones.

unable to stand, life continues

in the crawl of maggots.

may 17, 2014