Stand #140

I woke a warm morn,
sure a thief had took
my bed as I lay
on these clean odd sheets
and cut a slit, thin
like the gash a knife
makes to carve from skin,
skin. I threw wide my
crossed eyes, then tugged down
the crust in the nook
of my nose, flicked it
with my thumb, curled up
the lids, them both lashed
since last night to masts
of beer, smoke, a spritz
of Fifth Ave., these slaves
to the tricks the nose
will play when left out
to look for a touch,
out in the cold light.

Sun. Legs off an odd
trunk, strange curves like hills
one sees touched down on
a trip out of town.
Push me from this bed
with your long thin hands,
palms wide and arms strained
on my still stuck flesh,
but yawn not your eyes.
Do this from your sleep
so no words need be
spoke. Push with you weight,
shove hips to my hip,
butt of your foot on
the small of my back.
All of this, while you
breathe that calm slow breath
of one who still dreams.
Dream me till you wake,
and snore till I rise.

I reach for my specs
laid down at the foot
of the bed, tossed off
midst the moans, these frames
that hone my queer sight,
glass of my odd eyes.
I reach for them, lift
up my still nude form
and lose the warm sheets,
then knock down a cup
hid just at the edge
of the bed, wood floor
wet with a mint lisp
of the drink we shared
while each chose to kiss
each, now just a drop
of tea in the cup
and a ton of grief
for the life I lead,
for the ones I leave.

Earth. Spin me round, turn
my face back to light,
back from the knob gripped
in my hand, twist at
my guts till I wretch,
till I can not leave
cause my cold weak knees
are bent down in prayer,
blood welled up in my
eyes, till all the things
I ate and said work
to keep me here next
to this soft form, these
new hills, let go of
what food I did not
eat by choice, but food
it was time to eat.
Show me what time it
is, so I’ll know then
how late was last night.

I woke a warm morn,
stretched to lift my head
up off the bed, felt,
felt my neck fight back
but my legs tucked down
on the floor, and I
tripped to the loo, looked
at the face of sod,
blind in my right eye
from what dreams I had,
nights filled with arms, legs,
breasts and vast warm eyes.
I reached for the bowl
at that thought, my first
tryst, the speed with which
she was done and jumped
up out of bed, off
to do God knows what.
In the bowl, I lost
my aim, my round goal.

Black. Space of thought stored
up, kept in the nook
of the nose and built
up while you least see
what called you back, blank
space that hates its own
blank space, a bed left
clear and free each night
while I hide, in the
flecked paint in the back
of her eyes, live in
caves of stone and paint,
cells of calm, crazed sense
that leaves me hot, wet,
and the next day, spent.
While I was drunk, for
years, I would sleep, whole
days and nights spent blind,
find my shirt, and get
lost in the woke world.

I reach for the lens
to clear up the face
who peers back at me,
to see the new lines
of my known, and not
yet known eyes, too safe
and too late mouth that
calls back as a last
chance, her scent sunk in
the skin of my skin.
For who knows how long
I stand there, wrapped up
in my face, in sheets
and down fluffed up, pick
up my shirt, my shorts,
leave the pants and tie,
and with a wide view
I lay back down, wrap
my arms round her waist
to fit my woke form.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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