i am the dog moon howling

and its hot salmon glow, ripe as
swollen peaches ready to fall out of the sky
and into snarling haiku of roses

i am the water rising.
rushing over your body-
ready to
reanimate

and

you fell
and she sighed

and

he scarcely heard the turgid gasping
of his
muse



laying down to taste the roses:
the nectar is so sweet when they die
having bloomed for long
enough


having stayed there for long enough




lay down and taste the roses

i dream
of

my hand pushed through your hair like a gasp of hot air- the chemical burns cradling your head upon impact-arms like a limp nylon belt to strangle out the painand your neckbrokenand twisted around the words you could never managetosay
-or even muster up the courage to believe 
we collided 
on the way to discover a new piece of beautiful

we collided. 
you fell to your knees.

i swept you aside 

and whimpered for 
new religion 

will you place my face on shelf of things and trinkets meant to startle you
paper momentos and
pewter figurines
and make you think twice, or look over your shoulder one more time before you turn to step away
from this

kami-caress-
soul siphoning
season.
or toss me with a
splash into a fountain meant to splatter up chianti droplets black as blood-
burgundy as burnt skin
succulent stag bone bowels
rinsed over
maidens
wearing porcelain faces and bedtime lace
blue silver smoke rising like a timid ghost from briar pipes
that puff away indifferently
this
straitlaced summer
spiced red water
lethargic
linseed oil
tranquil
lull.
easy
tame hands
can strangle too
turning to indian summer
turning to the crisp
cool
autumn
turning
my body to

wet
sinewy
earth

she unceremoniously cut loose her hair with a knife 

you might have sworn you saw the shadow of a long figure in the window

you must've been warned about letting the goddamn hours slip by but some of them are golden
and some of them are as golden as stolen glances
and
you are the monsters that scare you
you dashed your heart away into a cigarbox up on a shelf over the closet
but there are other things that haunt you from the closet
some scarier than others and when you can't close the door hard enough
to lock in all the spectres
i am the sharp-ribbed man under the bed
that wants to touch you
and through all the sheets that wrap around you
i can still feel you
with my
fifteen fragile fingertips there's nothing to understand or not understand there is only to listen. or ignore
and you swear you can hear my shallow breathing
my slender arms bristle for sensation
your slender body
twisted into blankets
i must take away

6

i saw one little blip

on the  

sawtooth wave



it must be me

5

today i sliced my thumb open
doing something stupid

i

try to remember
to never

push against broken glass with bare hands

or slide my fingers into sharp places



but

today i sliced my face open

and

pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb
holding the flesh open

i felt the bony ridge browline, with the pads of my fingertips

were the contours were not smooth as they should have been but
mountainous and irregular from

old

injury

you wouldn't know it to look at me but my
skull is irregular

and asymmetrical.



and
just a little bit jagged.





feel it and you can tell.



i could tell. i





sliced.
my face


open.



to tell. i




opened up my
skin

just to catch a glimpse.

at my

crooked eyesockets
and


they were hideous.




and they were beautiful.





but you wouldn't know it just by my face.




or by the small scar beside my left eye that falls directly in the valley made by a crow's foot talon

i wonder

if
the wrinkles
are
from the scars or
if
the scars are just
conveniently

placed- today i sliced my face open


and
pushed my way into the front of my skull with my forefinger and thumb


with all the
viscera

of a madman

i've heard

the difference between medicine
and poison

is

in the dose.



but



i
never
stopped

breathing.

sometimes
breathing
is all

you
can

do. and

 i
sliced my

face




open
to
catch

a vision


i
guess

that
was
a pretty crazy thing
to do.





and
i wonder what my ribcage looks like

girls who spurt out wishes about not having a heart to hurt them need to be told that they are stupid.
and then be hastily kissed as they never have before

-before they have a chance to punch you. timing is crucial 

the best moments are those

in which we are dying
slowly.

rather than

chunk


by
chunk

isn't it beautiful to know exactly where the bowls are in the pantry cabinet,
and the way she kisses each gummy bear promptly before biting off its head.