storm's a brewin'

tonight in brooklyn, something other-worldly happened: i heard thunder and saw lightning.  it truly struck me as something bizarre and almost frightening because this city is so loud, so thunderous already that nature just seems like such an extreme against the intense urban-ness.  any real, spontaneous life, anything volatile from the earth is just extra what you're used to.  so with that, here's some of my poetry...which may come across as just extra what you're used to...


sometimes i want to lick your face just
to show you how sweet you are...
or tuck you under my arm like a
blanket, trailing silently
behind me.
i trust you like a brother
and i want to fuck you like a train wreck,
hard, loud, run it off the rails
till something makes us stop.

the air between us is so thick
you could almost choke on it
and sometimes i wish you would
so i could tear down the dark walls
between us and set fire to the
misidentified luggage you brought home.

there's a delicacy in your gloved tongue,
it keeps things long and elegant,
covered, so that even when you grab your
audience by the throat and squeeze, no evidence
is left behind.
but i can smell it on your breath: undigestible
meaning.

your touch feels like a broken promise
from all that fear
eating through the foundation
of our hell-bent love for one another,
grown outta summer sweat and
shadowy exchanges.
still there's something unbroached, unconsummated,
and i hang on the edge
of it like a cliff-jumper holding my breath in vain.

the most romantic thing you said
was i wish we could have breakfast, or
at least fuck again...
before you dropped me off for tomorrow,
turned around and drove to her
mentioning something vague about...

it's far-fetched, i know, that i
could breathe the life back into you,
resuscitate your hollowed-out heart
in time.
but if you'd just open your mouth
for me instead of all this
tight-lipped strategy
let the earth come up to meet you instead
of buckling in the
hard suck of gravity,
we could just be
for each other
like mac and cheese.
i'd rather sip on bittersweet bravery than
choke on a burnt chunk of good-bye.
now it's all polite and nice nice inside
the walls are dripping with
little pink bits of meat still pounding
in synchronistic time.
are you hungry?
the beast that gets blown apart at least
deserves the courtesy of becoming dinner.