Just So You Know

it was good to see
your bones.

do not look in my direction.
i may lose my mind and then i may
lose my head and then i may lose
my neck and then i may lose my bones.

Usurp

i'd like to hear your side of the story,
i saw you and you are still too skinny.
i want to know, is it cocaine, is it sadness,
is it madness, is it craving, failing, liking the dark,
needing the light, needing the bones to
be seen, tell me, i'd like to hear your side
of the story, do you think you'll be alright,

friend, i'd like to hear that you are okay
because if you are not i'd like to lend my pencil
and draw you skinny and help you find your way.
skinny friend, i do despise nights, the way they ended
the way your side of the story came out empty, skinny
friend, i do despise mornings, and i do despise

how skinny you have become since
you changed my favourite syllables, dear friend,
you are far too skinny, is it cocaine, sadness, madness,
tell me friend, i am mad as well, i am sad as well, i have been
wanting some cocaine, dear friend. skinny we are, have become
and i am sad that your skinny legs are skinnier than mine
and that you are too sad to sit still and speak, you are so sad.

Skinny Legs, I Saw You

your skinny highway jeans drew lines across my legs,
your skinny highway legs left lines across my eyes,
your highway cock killed me three times and i wanted to die.
four hundred skinny legs tumbled together like kindling,
the windows got shut to prevent the cars from driving through
and i wanted to creamate you there between my lines.
your skinny highway lines drew eyes across my ties and you
told me that skinny highway lines come often.
(but i want you)

your skinny highway planks of wood left lines across my legs
in broken skin and your skinny highway planks of cock left
me silent in your skinny highway lines of springs and following
skinny lines of stepping i watched you do in skinny sight
lines and you told me that skinny fucking love was hungry for
some hungry fucking love and lines across your skin are not
meant for leaving along lines
(but i want you)

your skinny highway legs left imprints on my brains speckled
and purpled like bruises that come from evenings when too many
drinks have been had and too many people have gone home alone
leaving lines in the road (but i want you) and your skinny
highway jeans leave too many lines at the bottom of my nose
too many lines at the top of the ceiling, your skinny highway
of rails and lines goldened like the sky above the treeline
(and i want you)

skinny highway love goldened hard against the reflection of the sky
against the skin covered keys on the sidewalk, i want you and skinny
highway jeans and love and lines and four hundred skinny arms tumbled
together in piles like fire wood, clanking and bruising skinny highway
lines into lines we were never meant to be and skinny highway sightlines
do still the air so skinny highway jeans are meant to be here in places
where your highway cock and skinny jeans leave lines across my eyes
(and i want you).

Here are a List of Reasons/New Muses

Here is a list of the things
my muse embodies:

Wheat grass.

My muse embodies breast plates decorated
with jade and amber and fluorescent pink
stones that belong at the bottom of
a pool of water coloured aqua (the jade

and the
amber are found in small
markets;

the water is
coloured by the
floor on which
it
finds itself
floating close
above -

sometimes it is dark
because the bottom cannot be seen).

My breast plate has become an arena
for bones

and for jewelry.
My breast plate has become an arena
for

decoration.
My breast has been wiped
of the seeds of the earth and
hungry as a breastplate I
have become clean.

I have become gaunted and blackened
and darkened at the eyes;
my skin has lost its rosy glow

but it stands still across my bones -

before we can create for the muse
we must become

the muse
(watch muses
through glass, through mirrors,
through windows);

my muse stands still, knowing watching,
knowing less the reprimand he has

upon my planting of new weeds,
upon the planting of my skin behind glass windows.

Apartments Behind Alleys Onto pages

can you see across the stream,
the angle of my pen,
the way it squews the letters into
shapes that have gone sour;
can you see the scratch of pen,
the scratch of language,
scratch of the mode this text implies,
momentum this implies.
i once smoked a tube packed with
need and i felt clean -
that is i felt beside myself -
like ecstasy obscuring curtains
and keys and pages of books
into things i can identify with stories
out of our cynical tripping to
scratch hands, make bands;
can you feel the scratching of this suede
against my toes, braided vinyl pushing
leather to the side where i found you
on the sidewall scratching hands,
stealing steez between the rings that make
imprints on your skin.