i am partially enclosed in my own box
with a window cut into it and bars at the bottom
and beyond this space morning is still a brief consideration,
a dream which the eastern sun cradles between her palms as she sleeps nude above China.
two floors down, the sound of sprinklers lulls me: my very own rainstorm,
sending up mist that barely reaches me and cold air that brushes my skin
like mother’s hands.
i am half awake; it is three in the morning.
the only other people awake right now are jeff buckley and the moon
and neither of them seems to pay me much attention just now,
the moon rolling over in his heavy cotton (billion thread-count) sheets
while jeff tells me over and over again how real that was
and my eyes keep closing but i can’t sleep.
three in the morning is not conducive to lucidity.
my brain stutters, yawns, trudges on its tracks as the sprinklers shut off
below my music (maniac) microcosm.
the skittish-deer thought that “i should go to bed” races across the tracks
too quickly for my mind to register,
and i stare out at my parking lot court with its lawn shaped like texas
and wait for my mommy to come home and put me to bed.
i know that i should have more pride than this,
but i would give my last bottle
to gain the syrupy sound of my name made wealthy,
slurred between your silver tongue and ivory teeth
you breath my syllables
through the softest of coin-pursed lips
and i reel from the richness of eight letters
turned to sixteen ounces of sugar
pulled through plastic straws and dollar bills
so my identity burns up velvet veins into the mines
of minds as yet unharvested
i am the cave of wonders and revelations,
and you are my aladdinboy:
i taste my birth-label
in the spice of incense choking your aristo-nose.
fortune wheels are turned upright for you;
i want you to purchase my vowels and my consonants.
my name might belong only to me,
but i have never wanted to be quite so used.
are heavy leather
cigar in the corner of your mouth
i want to worship
with my tongue,
trailing supple leather
sweeter than a lover’s skin
with my hands,
stroking dead flesh
[i’m a necrophiliac]
if i were
with the privilege
i think i might cum
all over myself.
heavy leather boots.
soldier at attention (hard) boots.
stomping tattoos into my face boots.
i’ll wear them
as a badge of honor.
i’m gonna steal
but only if your feet come with them.
it’s six thirty nine in the morning.
i haven’t slept yet, and around the venetian blinds
the softest gray glow scolds me gently for my insomnia.
I imagine beyond them the sleepy sun is stretching,
gazing for a moment on the yawning green fields
and snoring houses.
the gentle timbre of your voice has not yet acquired the gravel of seduction,
nor has it grown thick with the hypnotic smoke of age and experience;
yet juxtaposed with the strains of a mutemath song in my headphones
and laughing quietly at your roommates’ antics it is comforting–
I am wrapped completely in drowsy contentment
as you lull me to sleep with silly phrases, soft chuckles and breath.
my mother could creep round the corner any minute and catch me awake,
or your roommates might stumble in and render our conversation mute
but as i lay here in the burgeoning morning,
drifting off to sleep cradled in your sounds and sighs,
the only feeling that registers in the cotton blanket sleepiness lowering my eyelids
i shared a dream or two with you tonight,
but i told you nothing of the dreams i have for you.
i would like to hide away with you
between the bookshelves at barnes & noble
where we’d lose ourselves in stories of other places and lives;
i would like to feel the resonating strength of music collecting in my throat
as i hum lullabies to you in midday,
sweeping my fingers across your forehead and your cheek,
watching the lush steepness of your lower lip’s curve
beneath the tip of my finger as it slips, trips and slides toward your chin
i’d like to fall facefirst on a mattress,
felled by rogue pillows clenched in your fists while feathers snowed about us
and scratchy rock music sketched a scene that rich hiphop painted in:
the two of us, laughing, our hair wild as the tribes from whom we must have descended
and unable to catch breath as it races toward the ceiling just as another jumbo size sleep-sack
makes contact with the small of our backs.
i think, too, that i’d like to feed you fat strawberries dipped in cream
so i could wax poetic about how the contrasts in the richness of the berries’ reds
and the cream’ pallor match your own wind and sunlight skin
(it’s like summer in a field of flowers, looking at your face sometimes).
is it too soon, do you think,
to picture splashing soapy water on your shirt
as you come to tickle me while i’m trying to wash the dishes
from the last time you slept over?
i hope not,
because i’m already holding up the camera to capture it,
and you’re standing in just the right light.
don’t move; i might wake up.
on my side in bed,
soft music and chills
down the rocky curving
lover’s lane of my spine:
curving body like young wood
(and as brown),
i reach with both hands
stretching myself blissfully thin
across a distance
like chasms and canyons,
with honed rock faces–
like synapses infinitesimal:
around my back
until my fingertips press together
to hold me tight and close until the morning
i keep trying
to walk alone
your lips near my ear:
“please don’t go.”
i keep trying
to pull away
your hand on my arm:
“i’m begging you. stay.”
i keep trying
to take wing, to fly
your breath on the wind–
“if you leave, i’ll cry.”
this thread is taut,
is worn and thin;
keep pulling me close,
but you won’t let me in.
creep toward you in darkness,
reach for you by day
by dusk you seem closer,
by dawn far away.
i keep trying
to find a map;
i’m tripping and slipping
and falling in traps,
trying to find my way out.
and i search,
though i know not
what you want me to find:
“if you think i’ll let you go,
then you’re out of your mind.”