In summers of Greens and Blooz

Ooh ooh why didn’t I remember

My lips curved around yours when the photo booth curtains closed

I would have caught myself in the spiral.

Into tight spaces is where you left my poetry

In pages of books on dirty shelves and drunken stories

It was nothing to remember

We left thinking that a matchstick would ignite and words

Would spread into quilts of warmth.

Ohh ooh taste that feeling of regret after the fun is over

Stain

I pulled the string to tip the bucket
tip the bucket over.
I knew it would, I knew it would
spill its contents on the carpet.
And stain its fibers, ruining
the color it was made for.

But all the while the carpet was clean,
it was not even noticed.
Everyday it took its wear and tear
from soles not well intentioned.
And everyday each string was matted further in the floor.

Now the stain that leaves a ring much darker at the edges,
Much darker at the edges, a stigma at the edges

Untitled

We sat enclosed in the confines
of leather seats that stuck
To bare legs.
summer sweat.
matchstick lit.
It burned with a promise to never touch
the tips of my fingers.Your hand-moved, consuming the flame as my
lips lowered to kiss
calloused knuckles.
Mimicking sound waves of the seventh son you whisper: “Let’s have a ball and a biscuit sugar, and take our sweet little time about it.”
It took three seconds until sulfur rose to greet me and
the fresh smell of smoke comforted me,
redolent of a time when we gave in.
You leaned in.
I leaned back.
And “It’s quite possible that I’m your third man” stuck to my neck.
You take your time and I'll take mine.
Tucking my hair behind my ears you think:
Give me three seconds and I swear the stars will align in our favor.
You "just wait"

I better get my ass married quick or I'll

waste my womb, I'll
trench my tomb, I'll

not be norm, I'll
wake not warm, I'll

sit at home, I'll
arrive alone, I'll

grow grey, I'll
soon fade.

I decided to try something different. This is a re-write of a famous poem. See if you can guess the original...

It's almost spring

My mind keeps slipping on
icy sidewalks outside "our place". trying to remember the last time
i uttered the word

nostalgia. I try to explain to fifteen years of life on this earth. A word that can only be fully understood by experience.
And my foot slips...haphazardly, creating a credence of uncertainty.
A change in the frozen air; dryness on my shriveled lips
and wanting to boldly proclaim

regret. a need to speak but words are trapped inside like the concrete that keeps a statue from speaking. Its silence seeps and leaves me no choice but

penance. In sequence with giving up the old.
Outside is cold, but inside it is colder.
like carrying ice to a freezer. Now, amerced for a small offense of not watching where i was headed.