These won't be good, they're all improv...I just can't help myself and have to write.

my body stretching like a tear
it crawls to you, in the dark,
in cities you never knew were fighting.

i avoid the places
in which i loved you.

i am mustering
up the silent
words i need to walk
through rain.

i am seeing you
like shot-riddled corpses, week-
old at the side
of my oft-traveled roads.

like death, you are;
the first
time it shook me.

you will die at my
hand, but we
are both casualties.

it is already (always)
an ugly word.


always nights i feel the ocean
i see
my literalism, there is
literally,
a world between us.

i have drowned
in the distance

where you have never known me.


on crutches, waiting to be roused
my truth (i will be true)
is gurneyed at
the side of sterile hallways.

it was in the way
of nurses rushing to
your pain, your proof
of insurance.

i will facilitate
your happiness
in patience, in
lieu of patients.


it sprawled across that sprawling acreage
spread-eagle you lay
in the fields where
i lie.


i watched you clutch your blank
don't make me
remember myself
of the shot I begged
from you which

was not yours to give.

we are toy guns; we
are dramatic, are perfect
for what we are playing.


of breakers meet and disconnect, foam through bracelets
your generosity overwhelms, I
crash against it.
falling apart
through the little
things you give me.

i hear the bone dice
it rolls a six. a seven.
no more fives, monkey.

six again, the seven
is pulling my hand.

my hand is
pulling apart
at the fingers.

we will make of them
more dice, they
will click on concrete,
beneath enamel grimacing:

yellow, full
of holes.


harden against his hand. he's bored -
because i am bored. we
push these buttons.

a clitoral ctrl-alt-delete.

you are resetting, but i,
i just want to
turn it

off.