it's a dry heat

i walked until my shoes were tattered strips,

i watched the moon sink just below the treeline

and i made a beeline

through that desert though i’d

never see you, never see you,

the earth spun out of control, caught oblivious and i

curse the sun, curse the heat and the heavens

curse my heart and then my feet..

and my guts churning like sour milk,

recalled your voice like silk

that whispers

panting painting me i’m plastered,

asked me for ten minutes and i gave you an hour…

and 2000 miles under the yawning moon.

The adorable ballerina

Life at the bar:
Like a naughty/nice list.
The adorable ballerina
puts up with your shit.

Nothing is good enough.
No one is ever sated.
She fuckin smiles
no matter what.

i must have looked homeless

that flawless face,
the no-makeup makeup,
the tilt of her hips,
wings sharpened to scalpels.

i must have looked homeless
as i passed her by
with a polite smile,
hair in all directions.

stains on everything,
not even wearing socks
(or underwear) but
appearing just as effortless.

fuck denim, give me latex

this is what killed Tasha Yar,
what inspired Nietzche
to write all those sonnets.

the slick, inkiness, spreading itself thin
in between my legs, around my neck.
it stretches enough to let your lungs work,
it adheres to each contour and shows off
every imperfection perfectly.
this beats cling film any day.

i stare at it for minutes, lightly
passing my fingers over it
again and again.
i imagine myself preserved
underneath stone focusing
spiritual energy into space.

i want its unyielding authority,
i crave its surface tension,
i want to feel as though i am the sexiest Darth Vader.

i think about the horse people
who attended the convention,
expecting to be accepted
and only finding themselves.

i wanted to touch them without sarcasm,
to hold their straws still during a conversation
that would fascinate me to no end.
instead,
i watched people
circle the meatballs
because they are free.

imagine how beautiful we would be
preserved,
vacuum-packed for freshness,
smirking knowingly at every groper.

tucking that thought away,
bookmarking that page,
for when my disposable income
surpasses my common sense.

head to toe in leather

head to toe in leather,
hide tanned from corrosive salts,
waiting in line to wash it all off.
but the rain's coming baby,
roll those smokes up in your sleeve
safe and snug.
i'm living the free life,
i'm living in the matrix,
huffing e-fumes. then she resumes her speech politely
ignoring my constant interruptions:

"you're so cryptic,
and people don't want to think
to decipher the content.
they want to drink on Sunday"

i blink and it's Groundhog's day.
i blink and it's Christmas.
i blink and i'm reminded that
Autumn dies as fast as Spring.

my hide is weighing me down,
so i shed it.
my helm is chalky and brittle;
one tap and it crumbles.
my sniper's scope works mid-range at best,
and everything sounds good when it's not now.

turtles live forever at home,
those intrepid agoraphobes,
tracing their world out of a magazine.

so i took it all off, and blasted whatever is closest
to fill in and drown out the sound of airplanes
and trains
and people mumbling to themselves into a telephone.

i mention it often, but my tongue is loose
and sharpened and nowhere near my cheek:
i'd love for it to snow, to increase the albedo,
just a smidge or two until our marble reflects
what ugly ignorant assholes we are.

i watch her polite expression, knowing that
i am going the same place forever with my thoughts.
the matte surface of boredom and nostalgia presses me
to cross the street, despite my desire to
sun-bathe in the intersection.

dirty feet

my feet are filthy,
5 miles of blacktop
run entirely in circles.

my lungs protest,
but nothing can beat
a good ole chemical peel.

my heart sinks down
into the pit of my
grumbling stomach.

my mouth is a matchstick,
heartfelt and honest but
mostly incendiary.

my pronoun

i never want to have the discussion.
i don't like to think about it,
because no matter which one we use
someone is misidentified.

can we take a sledgehammer to this vestigial tail
passed onto us from dead languages?