there you are.

Saturdays and the 1 pm
alarm clock on snooze,
the bare-faced evenings
in throw blankets;
languid, but there is still
a rabid tongue
during fits of sudden inspiration.
moved from sheets
to cushions
to sheets
to type it,
to shower once a week
if you’ll allow yourself
to feel the warmth

graze your chin, scalp,
untouched chest.
open your chapped lips to the sky.
feel the water
trickle down your navel.
do not question anything
for those three whole seconds;
it is the closest thing to orgasm
you can manage.

it has been a tough change in seasons:
costuming yourself in grin,
tights and boots;
        you vulnerable, kid?
an expansive blankness
still drives your body around
to pick up soy milk for breakfast.

finish something you started.

there you are,
you cooing cobra.
the chills that almost ate
me: winter.   several
in a row.
the darkness and introspection of how
I’ve chosen to succeed:
lone and stolid
Two of Swords.
thanking my institutions
for showing me how to carve
pure copper into
green or something sharp to hold,
the likelihood that two things
look identical enough
to both be chosen,
that I will learn the
ways of mask
and holster; unfrozen
and burgeoning.

there you finally are.

“rage”