ineffable

Detract from myself, some different end, lambent and new. Tracked from quixotic attempts and allayed tangents, barely parallels hiding pieces From autumns and summers and other days without will. My own hands have swept along the warm concrete, Self-aware, but in contact with these sections, there, now, her. Some nights, in the humid dark, in the sour air, her hands, Different from mine, do not sweep, but move quickly, and now End at the concrete steps, at my timid shoulders.  “Quiet, Lamb,” she whimpers in between cigarette puffs.  And Bent, I give away these sweeping, self-aware hands.  Carefully And with curiosity, I se

The park simmered and hummed with clicking bicycle gears, snippets of conversations, and the soft thuds of runners’ feet on soggy ground.  The rainy season had come and clouds gathered, latching on to one another and filling the horizon; neither threatening nor ominous, but a casual caress to the sky and an ephemeral blanket to the earth.  A pair of elderly men played a match of chess together.  Wrinkled faces and rice paper fingertips paired not in contention, but in a mutual exchange.  There was no timing clock on their table, this was not a game of speed for them anymore, but a game of enjoying the company of the other, of appreciatin

Fractions and fractions And smoldering senses. Formulated light salsas Across forbidden, lonely bends And naughty bits. Realistically, there we Find demeanor with Spastic slouching, Appreciated in spittle And smaller tremors. Fingerprints are left In crushed velvet in Sweaty handfuls. Wishing for more And more And sometimes Less. Nostrils drawl in bluish, blossoming Smoke and flare in bouts Of serendipity and lust. Daisys of cancer and parental warnings. Lips feed on the swaying hips of The tangential light, glowing In ash, alcohol, and ninety-nine Cent lip gloss that was smuggled Out of stores, tucked in dingy pur

Dancing Puppet Taking off a little bit here, maybe. Perhaps a smaller area In some other place could say More of the, uh What does it need? This terrible conundrum That leads me to wonder, should he? No, but tie this to this And break this asunder, shall we? Put down the carving knife because what is This part that's completely wrong? The string should go here or to his Lower knee and that is hung Incorrectly so make this move over This other leg and this throng Of knots must pass and cover My fingers above that torrent Of limbs which strove From the wood and showed me I can't Simply create what may be.

There is a place Which I miss Only infrequently. There is a place where I atrophy from Caustic caresses And falter under Faultless crimes. These guitar hands Have been silent for days. These smoking hands Have cancered my lungs And tried to drink away the Shakes. These expressive hands Have found themselves At a loss for words. While tides May succumb to Lunar pressure So must we be. While we seclude Reason and chastise Lonely regret, We will be swayed again. If there is Nothing left, There will at least be A next time In my hands like wings Which may rest Around waists Not your own. There will at least be

A dark skinned girl Strode past me, Her hips swaying the wind And the wind whispering to me. My feet walked away from me And followed the air's gentle words. A fair skinned woman With furious red hair I did see, Whose hands beckoned With siren's songs As they slid along the Bottom of my jaw. My eyes left me, And followed to a Suburban apartment, With gaudy decorations. A waifish girl Brushed my elbow, Her waist turning   And swiveling to an Inconstant beat. My arms clasped Around her Sucking from her marrow And stroking her lies. But my one, My distant thought, My lovely heart, There is me left. For all the lov

Dear Andrew, It's July now.  The twenty-first to be exact.  This place is still loud in the mornings.  My mom and dad told me I would get used to it, but it's been four months and the trains going by still wake me in the morning.  I used to pretend that you were on those trains so I could at least smile when they woke me up, but trying to kid myself just made me miss you more.  I lied to you.  Remember a few days before I moved and after school on Tuesday you noticed your cologne was missing?  I told you it was okay because I never really liked it anyway.  I never did like it, but that's not what I lied to you about, I lied when I said I ha

Bouquet When I was young, there was a honeysuckle bush in my parent's back yard. When I wasn't too afraid of the bees that surrounded the flowers I would go and pick some, sucking the marrow from their bones. Then I would run inside and not tell my parents on purpose. I walked to work and found an orchid in the street, before a yard of flowers. I picked it up and was going to put it into my pocket But then I realized that defeated the flower's purpose. So I held it until I passed a pretty girl, and put it in her hair. I went to see my girlfriend and I pulled a daisy from my pocket. I smiled as she ate the whole thing. Now she

I'm writing you this letter because I miss you. We never get to see each other much, I know.   I wish we could spend more time together, But without being able to drive and going to different schools It makes things hard. My parents don't want to drive across town and they Don't like the idea of me having a girlfriend anyway, Which, I think, is their real excuse. They say I'm too young. What do they know. Anyway, I'll see you this weekend, But I just wanted to say hi, and I'm listening to our song(s). I'm writing you this letter because life has changed. I've moved away to college and we never see each other. We said that not