Fifteen Years LaterYou made love to your wife in the Chelsea Hotel. Laying her down, the sheets were already stained, the curtains were open, you weren't ashamed. She bent her arms at her elbows, over your head, like she was praying. She was so beautiful, and she was so young and you were only twenty then.Fifteen Years Later
You said "my friend, Allen. My friend Allen says-" and she kissed you, sending an earthquake through your body, knocking down the trees of your spine.
"This is no longer romantic" you said, watching the trashmen throw garbage over the streets. You were back in Brooklyn. The street
no excusesHe is moving, half in the shadow.no excuses
He is opening his mouth to sing a
song. His hair is raven feathers.
His tongue is heavy as a stone.
I question why he stretches his
hands out to me, what is in that
outstretched palm.
I question too many things.
He tells me fantasies were the saints
watch as he undoes my dress. He tells me how, when my mouth is covered
by his body, the saints would keep staring. I question that too.
The heat and salt; half in a shadow, half out. There's a hot pebble on his tongue, that he balances, th
a fatalist's lovesongIt begins like this. He opens a window to let in the rain and his shirt wrinkles like an old map. I imagine falling into every crevice; I wear his name on my sleeve.a fatalist's lovesong
I follow the lines of his clothing. The stripes on his shirt lead down to his belt--which implies a hazy mystery, which implies waking from a dream. There must be
pearls laying under the skin of hips. When he walks they strain against his jeans. Pearls hidden among a sea of dark reeds, that I cannot reach, but still
I dream of them nightly, of going under the waves.
He moves his knees against mine when we
the space betweenhe drapes heather over his shoulders,the space between
straightening his spine like a king. he smiles;
he talks low and soothing, part-hunter, part-father.
his gestures lose their youthfulness, his hands
confess his age, but when he bends low at the waist,
putting his fingers over the words on my page,
there is nothing left in the world.
he is not used to role as husband or
father and rolls his shoulders like a caged animal at the mention of home. he still blushes at
beautiful women. he giggles when i joke, the high squeal of a little boy.
when he stands close not
the living and the deadthe living and the dead
I lie on the floor, I cannot bear the bed, the sheets, so sweet smelling soft. I lie on the floor like it is the deck of a ship before a storm.
the things I used to tell you no one knows, the nightmares followed us home, but I like to think you have learned the secret -
where to begin the forgetting. I put you in a room like a moth in a jar, listen for your last breath, open the door, but you are gone the scent of burning hair, the animal fear, the way your knees brush each other like leaves, soundless &nbs
Notes toward the FourthNotes toward the Fourth
Notes toward the Fourth
I wore my mistakes like old shoes, taller
for them, keeping my feet apart from the sand.
in summer sun I read, “My soul is not at peace with having lost her,” and my spine shivered
like a fish flexes, like lightning from the sea.
* * * * *
the watchmaker’s daughter wearing white and blue
pain
I Can Run -+I Can Run -
from my porch lights, gypsy mothguns pointed. I can run - let someone else
have you, wet sea legs walking to me
as if I am an anemone or ancestor.
I can run - from my failing soul, over
fifty years. Over one hundred years,
over five thousand years, I can run-
past lives, Egyptians, thin cremated
children, geese and pointing their V
at me. I can run from Nixon and your
hand at the edge of the bed saying,
come back, come back. I can run as if
the
If I Die Tonight -+If I Die Tonight -
Bury me like a warrior - bow and arrow, or gun or clutching my heart. Allow
only my husband at the graveside, wondering who will save us now?
Who will write words on the
fogged bathroom mirror like
love be damned
or
your knees smell like peaches, I put my face
close while you sleep?
Who will write you letters that make you feel like
an embryo and it is just the grocery list?
Who will roar your first sad frown into something not quite so sad
Devious Journal Entry
Yearning
--
so let it out and let it in
--
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story?
--
--
If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
~ Brian Andreas
--
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story?
[link]
jfk
--
please stop by sometime
[link]
youarerighthereyouhavetakenthespaceoutofmywords
--
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story?
<3
I love your fics.
Here's a giftart.
<3
--
"But I guess I owe most of all to Francis, who really did look after me, and who often tried to keep me from being silly.".
--James Watson
I approve DNA-luv.
I just want to hug you.
--
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story?
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