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.

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.