-Doveageddon-

 

 

He Isn’t Trying to Done To Is

 

And

 

He Isn’t Feeling Was Should Hush.

 

He Just Is Looking Come What Must,

 

Nor Seeing Way for Way Could Trust.

 

What

 

Maybe Beyond Himself,

 

Nor Anything Outside Its S(h)elf.

 

But Nothing as Nobody

 

Just,

 

Fading Now, Into How,

 

Or As Collapsed Being;

 

Not As Empty As So|me|one

 

Nor as Opaque As Any|on(e)

 

But, As Vitreous as Per(son).

 

He is Not Some Green or Folk Blues;

 

Only as Nobody He is.

 

To Nothing

 

{As everything Who Become, Must Is.}

 

–

 

 

I think …

 

I’m going to call one of these numbers…

Specifically…

 

one written on the inside flip top

 

Of a pack of Camel Red Lights…

 

(Straight Black Hair, slightly stiff, slightly frizzed)

(Big Lips)

(Great Ass)

(The Mannerisms that Charm me)

(And a Sharp Nerdy Witt, to boot)

 

Yes, I could Live with That…

 

If only…

 

I Hate Not Feeling Good Enough…

 

I Hate being a Coward…

 

But…

 

I Will Live Without Regrets…

 

(And I Guess…)

 

That leaves me no Choice

 

But to go…

 

And See A Nightmare before Christmas (In 3-D!) this Friday…

 

And Who Knows

Maybe Get a Blowjob and Some Cuddle Action

 

(Oh Woe, Is Hideous Frightful Me!)

 

The Torment of My Life!

 

(I Joke, but I have the Emotional Barometer of a 12 Year old School Girl)

 

(Luckily Most of That Never Actually Reaches the Real World)

 

(How Unsexy is That)

 

(I’ll Keep my Uglyness to Myself Thanks)

(And Hope Life has the Dignity to Spare me the Pointing of, Out)

 

-The End-

 

Squeeze the Trigger Once… Perhaps Nothing Will Happen.

 

 

It’s Eighty Degrees.

His Breath is Still Cold.

 

Exaggerating monoliths,

 

My Eye’s

 

Have Become Lips…

 

 

Impatient.

 

Asphixiated.

 

 

 

Gutting,

 

I Smash the Sealed Glass

Of Between.

 

 

And

 

Without Knowing It,

 

Head-Long.

I Am Skindiving into Nature’s Gimmick.

 

 

 

 

Surrendered…

 

Chopstick Dizzy,

 

The Danger

 

Of Irresponsible Legs…

 

 

 

Several Crumpling Moments…

 

 

The Admired Justice

 

Of Condensation…

 

 

I want to Teach Him,

Whimsy

Transcends Ambition.

 

Just as

A Flash

Of

Peacock Eye’s…

Make Even The Devil

Feel

Surprised.

 

 

Fire Ants

Have Nested in my Heart.

 

The Air is Crowded

In Stumbling Moans.

 

Licking Miracles,

I Stand Before It

Thirteen Hours.

 

God Waits.

He Cries.

 

Each Moves

Through this Persistant Vault,

This Wonderment of Black Sheets,

As if

Off the Other’s Breath…

 

That Shared Anguish,

Like a Wind.

 

Fog 

Flowering as Sweat,

Scattering Tension

 

It Rises…

 

A Makeshift Pulpit.

 

My Scaffold of Whispers,

Internal, And Always … (Surprised)

 

 

 

Strangled.

Inconsiderate.

A Preponderance of Squirrel-Like Knockings

Hushes across the Wall.

 

Past the Window

In the Court Yard.

I Hear Muffled Thoats…

Which have not

Yet

Been Assigned…

 

There is Life Here…

 

There is Life…

 

It’s Eighty Degrees.

His Breath is Still Cold…

 

My Teeth Have Frozen.

There Are Butterflies Inside.