If I died right now, I'd have to say it was a pretty fantastic life

Big cursors want very badly to run your life
for in you value exists the nature of which is
lost today. When a cold rain wafts grey grief,
and pebbles a little dampening puckered kiss

it is possible to forget life, if only at the punch
of hazy late afternoons. Haze and cold together
remainder deep pockets that should be scarlet
and free. But should but really hurts your heart.

A Small Crematorium Can Only Burn Little Things

Upward facing leopard is a pose that few attempt,
also the schoolyard will seek to hide its red bricks
behind old charcoal stains that rise over hard pent
rust iron doors. Tight shiny coils, a cast door thick

on a handle that requires you to lift. Here was fire
applied to damp papers that needed to be hidden.
Peels lifted by flames curled every dried leaf higher,
each lick hiding a lie in letters. The pale boy bidden

by black habits rakes after days bygone in cool ashes
looking for raised capital alphabets in the palimpsest.
There was one 'A' that outlived fiery janitorial trashes,
left exposed on red brick creases squaring, now best

remembered as a curse. Up to facing a leopard pose
it's the hardest part to face, even just now, I suppose.

Joy

The joy I felt when you bent your warm neck on mine
in the curvy aftermath of beige pillows happily tossed,
and your sweet deep snore.

It's the only joy I will ever need.

Draft of a Poem not Written

When the window broke with a wide teal shatter,
a lattice pine painted in this world, but strained,
burst into a wet torrent. Hurricanes arising matter
when, unexpectedly, a blue frame is broken. Rains

misunderstood wash away squares looping green,
but yellow bleaching on a toothy tin frame, swells
when the weather turns drier. A sneaky desk seen
as elder mahogany had no shallow bluish inkwells

but two creaky drawers. We ran ourselves silly
in a shallow concrete bowl near the graveyard
in anti-gravity glee, slipping on the moss willy-
nil in green defiance of the dead. Sanctus hard

blew when a storm came and left with cool grey-
ozone in my nostrils flared, a sparrow flew away.

Chapter One

Off-key melodies show the genius in the rhythm
of austere cold in the yellow shale neighborhood
where the cute doctor shaved downstairs. Ahem.
Yes, doctorates are awarded to the expected brood

Because dark blue courses lay down a bonded way
that will not, for a gold chance, be easily forgotten.
Up the stairs a landlady starts at a pale green May
coming through her window not uninvited, but then

reconsiders. A child's short bark is only the start
of a correspondence that will haunt a generation
that is yet to be born. Yellow letters often marked
by the pale man late of radio did birth the notion

of a halting voice that still quakes to speak. What 
if a block from the cold stones a quiver arose but

To call it swimming is weird

The day I overdosed on anchovies was a cloudy day
with winds from the east that purple and lime green
blustered while a lame purpose from the east swayed
twin palm's golden birthing into that dictionary scene. 

A little cow funk evaporated through the clear divide,
enough to color my now room from a cool white vibe
to something more like blues ascension in crazy time.
(When salty little fish grow wings you'd better sigh.)

Skipping, skipping, New Morning and only had groove
enough to smell the chocolate and crave salty legumes.
A taste is sweet enough when the skillet starts to move,
little black specks in your roux: a solemn hint of tombs.

Bass lines make no issues with glass that so easily slides,
down in a crypt I hearded crimes from crispy fins inside.

One Afternoon

One of the greatest pleasures in life
is to lie skin to skin with another human being.

To feel hot breath on your neck or
to breathe hot breath on the neck of another.

To feel your hairy legs wrapped around hairless legs
or to feel hairless legs wrapped by your hairless legs
or to feel your hairless legs wrapped by hairy legs
or to feel hairy legs wrapped by your hairy legs.

To feel the flat red flush of a heaving breast.

It's just a little longer, is all

First in the barnyard, I noticed the brown:

When the young pretender entered it was bad
but the blood was already washed away. I heard
the boss scratching, ready to crow at morning sun.

I looked up at stucco, a shadowed swept low arc,
hands soon to expose every crack and the housing
of legs that despised the sun, seeking a fey succor
before the rays bleached a little joy away for good.

It's just a little longer, is all.