you flick i love you from your smokingtip fingers like ash
while the rest of us ache to taste the menthol
and you wonder why you got burned?
sir–awake one night–turned on his side
and discovering boy asleep he touched a fingertip to the lips that had blessed (his cock) him hours before, imagining he could perhaps siphon a bit of the nectarlike words from the throat of the slumbering lover he beheld–
finding himself dissatisfied with the puffs of breath he received for his efforts,
he touched all five fingers to boy’s pouting mouth
closed his eyes
whispered a prayer and waited;
feeling disappointment like the rusted anchor of the R.M.S Relation-Ship sinkplungedive into his bottomless breast sir folded his hands beneath him and gathered boy against his side to fall asleep, and
hours stacked themselves on his brow then stirring in his quiet way
boy opened one eye, then. the other;
leaned over and holding sir’s latent fingers to his mouth he pressed a butterfly of kisses to the whorls and lines speaking love and let it fly into sir’s pleasant dreams–
…there its wings met light and spread wide
in pursuit of such simple pleasures–
in search of such gentle crudeness,
the primeval soul-probe which sole survives time
with neither predecessor nor progeny
i am closing my eyes now,
and taking a breath
for want of the kiss–
and will you catch me now?
though you have long been away
and i have taught myself to other students–
still i miss your wrinkled noise and lemonbright face;
though there have been lines– no, parades— of others,
some thinner, some fatter
not a one felt quite like you did in my hands
or grated against my palms like you.
not one smoothed beneath my searching fingers like you.
none of them were able to coax such utter honesty from my lips
nor such sensual musings as we shared;
they were not you and never could be,
and to this day i long for us to be united again.
it’s a cold winter evening.
i am warm inside my igloo (room)
with my finger poised forever above the same key.
it’s a cold winter evening
i am splashed paint on the violet [sky]canvas
taking my breath square inch by circular foot, i
can’t breathe (and i don’t quite know if i want to)
pianoforte in the background of my backdrop consciousness
where we drift:
it’s a high school story written with a college pen
on professionalsomethinggraduate paper
read line by shaky line.
we know the story;
we can predict the characters’ next moves so
ignoring the silly narrator
we study each other and learn the language of ‘i feel’
and together in sleep we nestle close
as the jazz roots of my jazz mind wraparound us both
pull us deep into history
(which we are making together)
you are the song without lyrics
which in fumbling for my keys
in my sexy leather coat that’s actually too thin to protect me much
i hum to keep patience on the brain;
i hum i hum hum hum de dum in the shower,
tap dancing on green tiles
that are always a little dirty; hm
you’re the song i hum on the way to the bus in the morning
half asleep and oh my god not school it’s too early
that i hum while i jump around struggling with stubborn zippers;
washing the dishes,
folding the laundry.
you are always at the back of my throat
skating along my tongue to my lips
where they tremble in anticipation of the next note
(such sweet words without letters!)
you trip along my teeth, tic-tic click
i am the drums;
together we make a melody
and i am forever dancing to the rhythm.
the truth is the sun never (actually) sleeps; what happens is
the moon gets sick of playing understudy
so he says “move bitch”
and the sun says “make me”
and the moon says “all right then!”
and the moon gathers all the clouds
and the sun gathers all the stars
and they have a great war and the rest is history
(and the result is rain)