The Kiss

Being dual-natured
and unkempt,
I felt the magnets
of space
and the gravity
of your face
coupled with high-school snickers
and LSD.

Being as much man
as I am woman,
I gnashed your letters
with buckled teeth
and carved your name
in the temporary trees
brimming in white light
and debauchery.

Being trampled
and defeated,
I opted to follow
instead of lead
and my river of truth
spilled into your sea,
where you gulped me down
and left me.

So, I strangled the moment.

Ripping the breath from her mouth,
we stood there in the dark,
with bicycles and souls,
salty-wet and desert-sanded:
one formless form
of a resounding glow,

an echo
of skin
over skin.

To my playa self

Good night
sweet thing,
another year
always brings:

a light
a song
a dance
a scream–

A giant hug
a warm kiss.

A sweat
a mirror
a fever
of bliss–

A thrust
a shiver
a demand
for promises.

A shaking, a spreading,
an emblem of survival,
a quaking
a scraping
a tremor of denial.

And when you rest,
sweet thing,
when the cape is hung,
the whips are folded,
the dust masks
are debris-free:

dream I’m on fire.

White

I seek sun like a Pilgrim.
The cascaded beams
are my holy waters
and I am filthy.

The stench of heat,
the aroma–
my moans stick
sugary sweet
to the insides
of your cheeks.

I breathe through
your nostrils and ache
when you drift between
awake and asleep.

And when I see white,
I know I am home.
The blinding color
of my versatility:

I am everyone’s and no one’s.

I have one T-shirt
I keep rolled up
in a heap, stuffed
in my wooden drawer.

And when I smell fire
and sage, I remove it
from its cave
and dip my nose
in the throws
of blue-hued
memory.

You are sawdust.
You are a workshop.
You are oily rags
of motor fluid
and cheap laundry soap
weaved between layers
of cotton Hanes
undershirts.

I nightmare often:
that we are strangers
in the dust storm
and we pass each other,
walking aimlessly
in the White Out.

But upon awakening,
singed hairs round my face,
splinters wedged deep
between fingers,
I feel your mass:

the warm weight of your eyes.

Echoes of Scents

Echoes of scents linger,
the Patchouli-sickened gaze
back into my memory tomb
is a vertical slit upwards,
blood that pours evenly,
stains in patches,
grips fabric in concentric circles:
Venn diagrams
of all the reasons I left.

I’ve decompressed from you.
Gone to the desert and back,
gulped men and women like fire.
My inked flesh scarred over,
leashes unbuckled with teeth,
chains undone with feet,
I had bare skin illuminate
like moon veil and sheen,
and all wind-chapped regrets
leaked into the Earth
like whiskey spit.

And then things were lit
with matches:
a photo,
every haunting crescendo
whining from speakers,
and that downright
terrifying smell,
where I shelved you
and let you collect dust,
where water drips crisp
each page,
enveloped between layers
of black romances.

And there you ghost my evenings,
light the river of oil,
until I am an ocean of burning.

Masquerade

We wear many faces.
Removing and adorning
colors and shapes
with our skin flats,
weeping neon,
grinning child-like,
forcing every liquid
ounce down,
tasting anonymity.

Our naked masquerade:
shortcomings dissolved
to climaxes
to plateaus
to dark denouements.

With chest cavities spread,
drowned demons
met decadent
dooms,
timber for our resurrections.

I see you now more than ever.
Every layer as exposed as the last.

Meet Me

Meet me between the dust waves,
the broken sound barrier,
the naughty hymen of life,
where we’re betrothed
to our demons,
and theorized in sun-lit verses.

Meet me beneath support beams,
gnarled fingers of charred wood,
a witch’s crooked hand,
a malice-filled smirk slapped
across the moon’s face,
a glow in its belly.

Meet me below the inky shadows,
wine-veined and sleepy,
meet my lips with yours,
wrap your acid-limbed body
across the velvet sheets
of solace and mayhem.

Meet me:
triangulate our whispers–
swallow my
silhouette.

Join me:
chain links
of hedonism
and wind-chapped
kisses.

Anthology of Firsts

Star-ridden and worshipped:
you reek of talent
and scalloped grasses,
leaves fresh and waving,
pine needles crisp
and snapped open
to be sucked on.

You ooze of innocuous
flush,
cheekbones and jaw
traced,
memorized,
depicted in dreamful
states and fortune-told
spaces gaping with
whiskey and half-smoked
cigarettes.

You are the antithesis of
acrimony,
and when I bask
in the lack of what you lack,
I am the wild animal—

swift head shot,
down and trophied,
lying belly up,
roped and yoked
with pleasure.

Just look up, he says,
you’ll eventually see one,
they’re happening all the time.

Dust Drunk

The dust snakes its way in.
The billows rush down
my throat.
I am inhaling decades
worth of burnt art,
generations of cathartic
quips, hits of acid
spike-driven
and psyche-hooked.

And best of all: lost.

I wipe my feet at the bed
of your gnawed
social constructs, says the wind.

I reign over your biological need
for self-preservation.

In the eye—
Lassoed and limp
to its throttles.
There’s little to do,
see, identify, pacify,
weep for—Having
been swallowed up
and digested
by the fury
of the whiteout,
existence’s on hiatus.

Humanity is stripped,
sight, touch,
smell, hearing,
speaking,
no, not the speaking!
robbed by dusty thieves,
hunted and struck down
by wind-thrown rocks,
pebbles in the esophagus,
granules behind the eyelids,
you know but one color,
beige,
blanched almonds,
burly wood,
corn silk,
ghost white
at times, wet
behind the veil,
the welling in your eyes,
submerging the soot
in salty despair.

How have you learned
to talk back to the dust?

An art much like avoiding
a spanking,
getting away with murder
has no feasibility here,
your lungs have missed curfew,
punishment for that?

I want to scream, but—
where are we?
No compass,
except,
looking up: hints
of contrast,
slivers of sky
whisper blue,
and so I push the bike,
my body,
my urge to make
myself into a small ball,
climb back into the womb,
give in to the warm seductress
of earthy burials.

Minutes give no way
to hidden art, nothing
peeks at me through the
smoggy curtains:

The Temple is avoiding eye
contact.

Then, people.
Filmy souls sauntering,
wind-whipped as well.
Every
single
one lost.

Few are having an
out of body experience,
and only one citizen
of the sand
points for me,
Walk into it, he says.

But the storm just beats
its chest,
heaving and salivating
for me.
Gravel shackled
to bare ankles,
70 m.p.h. currents coiled
around collar bone,
choked and filleted.

Until a tingling: swimming
between wind-waves,
I can hear something
other than muck and loam.
Music’s mercy.

I lurch towards it.
Her bodice a beckoning
harmony.
She snaps at my chest,
gushing beats into
dirt-filled ears.
The tune beacon
saves me,

“the Rhythm-Bricked Road,”
“Lion Mane’s Purple Crayon,”

and all that’s left to do,
is wander the neighbor’s gardens,
sniff the air,
locate the aroma of home.

Upon arriving, dried up
sobs train-wrecked in my
mouth, and hair aged
by eons of terrain,
I notice how light I am,
throwing my bike down,
I helium-bounce up, until—
my sister tells me, her voice the sound
of rocky breezes,
her eyes like that of fiery
coals, skin
youthed and revolving,

Time to make the dinner.