fromthe soft destruction

Feels like Ray Charles is still alive.

My friend, I don’t know what to do.

Eating soap chips until I love you?

Reading the Berenstain Bears aloud.

I’m listening to music in the hall.

On the phone for an hour designing

exhaustive chemical topographys.

Hummingbirds: $240 MILLION.

Please support the Hummingbird

vacuum avoidance awareness fund.

Farming whiplash into chicken eggs.

Counting depictions of God on film.

( There’s also this: In the coffin lid,

inside, please put a flat panel 1080i

re running Rescue Rangers livefeed )

Conflicted, I can assume the best.

—melting snow cone. No one cares.

Right now I’m controlling my burn.

I own my face [or my mother does].

Golden Axe isn’t about your stats.

Tampering with the EDGE routers

of the universe to data mine overtow

substance pressure; trace-route CO₂.

Steppenwolf is really killing up here.

6AM & I’m already getting crunk.

Pretending conversational French….

I won, I’m a bad winner. I dance.

She’s allocating laughter, joking

blondes & Jack London’s wintercoat.

An interesting fact most do not know.

Or, lateral austerical triage bandage.

i.e. Banning Santa this year, dickhead.

Bumping Illmatic off a used cassette.

Biggest thunderstorm in years.

ratkingcole:

(Source: childrenofwolves)

Dimple-In-The-Pelvis-Just-Above-The-Thighs

“ … if life is a garden, women are the flowers

   so I must be a gardener. ”

- Pedro Infante

            “And suddenly you’re not there.

             Goodbye, love, goodbye.

             You’re already gone.”

- Angel Gonzalez

Decoct’d, panting distillates; binocular’d interstice

I leap the gap

how long have we been apart

you appear only to inform me you exist

with henna on your tongue —

(ars est celare artem)

— ephemera, sucking the salt off

our skin you lick my selve to

vanish us like hard candy —

we almost did didn’t we

bronze our veins with the parfum

pouring from our bodies, you called me guttersnipe

I call you nothing and enjoy it:

how the surface of my palms fit

the shape of the dimples in your pelvis

just above your thighs, how my fingers grip

squeeze, my mouth humid in your

your south, night breaking like an egg

on the earth’s ceiling, an upside down skillet

and suddenly you are not there, I’m left a parergon,

the sketches of a poem’s intent

to describe everything but

what we were: desultory lovers

Two-Just-Near-The-Spine,

slow-defervescence,

That-Absent-Minded-Look-In-Our-Eyes

* with much thanks to Paavo Haavikko

Now Trending at Blue Mesa Review’s 25th issue

Dinah at Watch

(Source: bluemesareviewonline.com)