an unseasonably warm day in march on pittsburgh’s south side

a tattooed heaven with a glass third eye
doesn’t hover over us
it’s beneath every step we take
listening to every word
wanting to lean in closer
though hesitant to spook one another
the dance has begun baby
i hear charlie parker’s horn
or maybe eric dolphy’s alto
cutting through metropolitan clatter
rising above thousands of distractions
& i haven’t seen a single building over four stories
since we hit the south side
from the urban gentrification of the last bus stop
dissolved into a relaxed vibe
a miracle considering my agoraphobic bolts
walking streets as close as possible
without actually touching
only occasionally brushing against you
& the electricity (overused simile that it is)
is undeniable, a holy conformation
i must be swinging in the right direction
& i admit i need this supernatural chicken skin
because i’m not always in tune
with my biochemical demands
until the song has stopped, the needle lifted
before ultimate consummation
the future a mere few second traces
that pull me near
though i should stress willingly
& i hear a bass line
that i haven’t heard in so long
a classic motown number






synchronicity

a formal invitation isn’t necessary
nor required, thank god
but i know you’re going out of your way
to accommodate head taller, sprawled, gangly limbs
though i ask you
please don’t make a fuss over me
& hinting factiously, but not entirely
to pretend i’m not even there
but you never deny my presence
you never glance away
when i want to make soul to soul contact
listening to your brown eyes
never seeming to be embarrassed
or uncomfortable in any way
& i’ve told you about this desire
yet i don’t feel as if you’re faking it
for my pleasure, my need
i believe i would pick up on that immediately
& when my chemistry suddenly dips
as it’s genetically predisposed to do
my mind abruptly shifting into reverse
rushing toward a dark place
where no one can reach me
i have to ride it out on my own
this is what i’ve told myself forever
but you sense this
you move behind me, seated in a kitchen
a perfect tactic in this situation
then wrap your arms around my neck
laying my head against your warmth
i’m caught off guard
which is exactly the right answer
& i wonder
how could you know this





thursday night at her house

talking for hours, my mind racing haphazardly
without worrying where it will land, or possibly crash
not a concern, as long as i can say
but what a fucking ride it was
stimulated with your brilliance
stealing your word because it applies
your life much more interesting than mine i think
wishing i could have been there too
no shuffling silence, no frantically reaching for right words
because i’m afraid truth will rip us away from each other
unaware of time, not willing to let the clock intrude
i’m feeling selfish
tonight i want you all to myself
no interruptions from the world
that’s on the other side of the door
but feels like a million light years
unreachable in that many lifetimes
i have no use, no patience for stern warnings
not to let myself be pulled into your gravity
i won’t listen to smug insistence
that it’s for my own good after all
fuck that dirty adage
i didn’t acknowledge it then
i certainly don’t believe it now
& eventually
though i’ve never cared for the implications behind that word
we slip into black velvet comfort
& for the first time
i notice the light behind the headboard says 4:30
almost ready to crack open a new day
but i refuse to let go of this one
i’m unconcerned with linear handcuffs
i don’t think twice about falling
touching unloved parts that whisper now
thick, creamy impulse, lips exploring pure sugar
no need for artificial sweetener
then i enter you
& you enter me





two crows

a makeshift altar is circled by two crows
that aren’t mistaken for angelic messengers
there are no candles throwing shadows
on exposed brass organ piping mood muzak
there are no sacraments hidden
behind spit & polished pseudo-perfection
but none of this matters
we have our own sacraments, our own prayers
tucked under shiny, black aerodynamics
that somehow are never dropped
when we lift off
searching out the highest scene
perched on spring’s branches
not yet blooming
still bare, brittle, deceptively unsure
but this isn’t a concern either
we need no guarantees
no safety net, no pinpoint accuracy
no preordained target
because right now we’re not going anywhere
at least in the physical sense
though we rub beaks until sparks catch
& we find ourselves within a ring of fire
that heats april, dragging its feet
burns any hesitation into silky ash
there are no legally binding signatures
there are no strings that require cutting
so we can do our dance while in flight
if that’s what we desire
or balanced at this head spinning world-view
unfettered diamonds throwing off light
unafraid of plunging full throttle into matchbox squeeze
much too small to contain any heaven
at least that’s what we’ve been told
but we know otherwise






a scratched record spinning at thirty-three & a third

a glory be hosanna straight off a sun record label
a raspy hallelujah with a mussel shoals groove
a knee-buckling devotional as hard as jet black 78
though the song repeats
it rings our ear differently each time
never growing old, with beautifully subtle nuance
& swinging, scratchy backbeat
that contains more soul in twelve bars
than endless assembly line cookie-cutter can’t miss
sonically layered track upon track
enhanced for mass consumption, the bottom line dictates
no freeze-framed choreographed stiffs
only liquid moves, abandoned self-consciousness
no numbered step by step keeping us in line
no inked puzzled jerry-rigged next big thing
that’s been softened with vaseline lens
& smeared expensive, but nauseating perfume
incredulously watching shattered shells fall to the floor
left behind, what use are they to us now
innocence exposed as crazy mad mind-fuck
not jaded play it by the rules
aluminum foil halos rolling in no predictable pattern
hungry circles stripped down to chaotic shake it
rubbing out mathematical proof
that such a place can’t possibly exist
it would appear there’s been a miscalculation
because we’re laying down binary codes
or hugs & kisses
however you choose to see it
though that’s hardly our concern
that no else can read, no one else understands
no one else will ever crack
the indecipherable poetry of lovers





asking too much i suppose

inhaling last night on my clothes, i draw in deep
while savoring our taste on cracked lips
my mouth watering with pavlovian hunger
i’m driving in the opposite direction of where i want to be
i curse the machine age & economic considerations
that jerk us around, twist lubrication from our souls
because apparently blood is too sticky to be effective
& orgasms must be coaxed out
but time is not of the essence, time leaves a paper trail
& we chase after it like clownish parodies
until we can shake its spell
that is, if we can ever wake to natural desire
instead of pumped in streamers
caught in sterilized test tubes
i curse glossy ink-stained fingers
that tempt me with come on looks
that cameras catch flawlessly
stapled to jets of to-be-continued origin of species
i question whether i’ve transcended advertising teasers
or am i simply growing old
narcotic nightmares leave me
limping toward cracked mirrors & receding melody lines
& i pray you can save me
though it might be seen as sacrilegious infidelity
& besides, i realize it’s too much to ask of anyone
which is why i fall to my knees
right in front of the executioner
instead of calling in my request
still i hang on to the hope you can pluck me
from the jaws of powdered beasts
without tearing me apart in the process
i wrestle with my faith in you
if only you could read my thoughts
i curse our inability to count beyond a handful





reveal it to me

a force-fed matriculation, a perfectly reasonable replica
held against my confusion, threatening
to pull the lever on the greased trapdoor
smearing me across contractual obligation
because we sign our names left to right
unlike foreign correspondence
so perhaps i was born into the wrong tribe
i wish it were that simple
i carry my weakness with me on the meaty side of southpaw
constant reminders that i never scrub off fast enough
my literary output will be confused with confessions
i will stand before judgment
not allowed to scratch at smoky glass
forget myself, sink into pure poetry
before i’m corrupted, tempted by flattered numbers
that might only be quasi-mystical stooges
more than an animal need to bleed virgin impulse
or click off bursts of angel-faced splash
a jaded frustration sweeps the table
leaves me a fucking mess
& there’s nobody here i can turn to
who can blow out my blue veins
point out something beautiful
tell me—look here instead