still life

still

life

“Head of a Guillotined Man”  by Jean Louis Andre Theodore Gericault

he listens for my heart beat

with his ear pressed into

the ink.

silence like the insides

of seashells.

this is death’s still life.

it stares

from hollow coal sockets

that once swallowed

the world.

his is a presence that

stalks like

clawing fogs

violent wrought iron

and granite too thick

to lift. 

he spills sanguine cabernet

onto white innocent

linens as life

drains his veins.

verdigris skin slinks

against his skull

and his single tooth

makes digestion

difficult

because i too

have death on my breath.

it slips into my skin and

sips at my cells.

behind my eyelids

it is all black

and when we blink

we don’t always

 come back

lovers & fuckers

before there was sex

he loved my
warm silk wrists and
electric pulse

 
he placed his cheek
beneath my clavicles
to whisper to my

skin

and trace my spine

with kisses

before

black plastic sex boxes
colored rubber cocks

before

pizza porn
circumcised sausages
closeups of
slick pink lips

 stitched breasts and

coccyx stamped
suicide chicks

girls had
sexy ankles.

and that soft space
behind my ears
where you
brush secrets and
your thumbs.
 

and now i miss

the innocence

of your porcelain

kiss 

snakes shed skin in casings

he sits inside the ghost

of a cowboy marlboro
and half a stale croissant

atop a stack of hustlers.

 his cold coffee collects smoke and ashes
which float like snow at midnight

and he sips at it anyway.

the chick he caked last night
has a perfect circle birthmark
that dots her spine in the center

the shitshack rorschach stares

and he snakes the last
of his smoke towards the yellowed
stucco ceiling and
thinks about

forbidden knowledge

the garden
garter snake is back
again.
scales like sunflower
seeds
that
sleep inside the
basil leaves.

it stalks slowly
like
crystallized honey
and thaws
the frosty
thursday air
in measured
bifurcated tastes.

i sit beside
the
sliding glass panels
with pink sugared grapefruit
segments
for breakfast
and contemplate
the silent stance between us

it
lisps whispers
and stares 
with glistening obsidians
 that seem to swallow
secrets 

about
the skin
picked from
 palms;
life lines
flaked into
forks
and the palmfull
of blondes
aside the sleepless pillows

the
garden garter
slithers
inside
again
and seeps into
the walls 

sacred mornings

god spoke to me
this morning

through
burnt toast
and almond
coffee creamer
that looked like
his son

jesus
was in my
whole wheat
crumbs

that
flaked
into the
stainless sink
where i ate.

and i thought about that
stevie wonder song
about
talking to god.

and
about
the vertical crack
in my coffee cup
and how
spiders
can weave silk balloons
to fly

 but mostly
 how
most things can
speak
without words

it's like hypnosis

she has this
way

the way
she
slides my cold
palms into hers
and
smooths my stray
hairs
behind my ears.

the way
she eats popcorn
kernels
first
and saves the soft white
outsides for last

and
listens
to my breath
when
it is just us
and stillness.


and i am
transfixed
by her kiss
sweet lips
soft
ness
and secret

that
she
exists
for me. 

sames and differents

i refuse to capitalize
because
why should
any
fucking one of us
be proper?

why
am i
are you
is she
more important than i
am?

and how are we different

of one breath as
the world

inhales itself
and breathes us
into new seconds
amongst the
petals
and sidewalk cracks
and cigarettes

we
all
breathe

and suddenly 

capitals
seem inconsequential.