you love women

you love your women
like you love a good song;
you don’t know the words,
but you still sing along.

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drift

I’d like to stay a while in the pre-verbal hours
of a promisingly prurient morning, when
slow smiles and eyelashes
were sufficient communication and the call of a mourning
dove provided punctuation
to a conversation
initiated
by the curve of shoulder, encouraged
by the shape of shadow lingering just below
your collar bone, and caught
in the sound our breath made
as we gradually
came awake.

when it comes right down to it

hesitate.

that’s all it takes

for me

to think that you’re afraid;

unable to articulate

what it is that holds you back,

unwilling to admit, perhaps, that

timing

is a bitch and

now

is simply not the moment-

for no good reason other than

this

is not sustainable and I

am not retainable

on such a fucking meager

ration of your

love.

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She said,

“We ran
away as kids, but now
she leaves
me alone with
the horrors
of a shared childhood
and how can I
blame her, really, except for
when the nightmares come,
tearing a scream
from the fist-like place
inside me
where even I don’t dare
explore.”

(For the record, this is not an actual quote.)

Wrestling with Owls

Words- flung forward into
Sunshine days
With force enough
To slice through
fear, yet still too fleeting
To last longer than the shadows that stretch
Taught
Across the lawn- will wither
wilt, melt away, so

Go.

Wrestle
with the owls
over moonbeams meant for
lovers.

Leave
Hieroglyphic footprints
Where the snow
Forgot to melt

Exhale
Through the window
The breath
Of summer nights
Hung bright with lights, when
Laughter collapsing
Into sighs
Escaped our hungry lungs.

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First Date Fail

(Based on last night. No hard feelings for Mr. Date)

In a small, dark, dive bar, the
bartender makes me
a negroni. I sip.
And wait.

He arrives in a fluster.
I stand, he
turns- No hug, no touch. So I
sit, he perches: Nervous, or alert?

We talk. He asks, I respond. I gain
momentum, expressing
myself strongly, this
is my passion, it’s
important it is
life and truth and-
Wham.
He changes
subject. “That’s not appropriate
first date fodder.”
Oh.

So we talk. I question, he
rambles, I nod. Do we want
another drink? No, let’s go- that band is playing soon.

We walk, with space between us,
no tension, just empty
boredom- up the blocks, I focus on avoiding
sidewalk cracks.

He pays the cover fee, but I opt out-
like I’m choosing
a TSA pat-down
over possible radiation exposure,
except this option involves much less
fondling.