“I’ll go first.”  He took a deep breath and adjusted his collar.  His jaw flexed while he exhaled.

“Okay,” she said, not looking up.

He didn't think she believed him.  He balled little hands into tiny, shaking fists.  Untrimmed nails dug into his palms.

               

A static tickle wove its way between the fibers of the too-big socks on his feet as he crossed the room.

Inside a drawer.

Beneath silk and lace.

A small, handled storm.  Six capsules of lightning.

“Okay.”  It was heavy in his hands.  Tiny fingers against the handle and trigger.  Lips closed around a cold, silver barrel.

“Yeah,” she still sat there, across the room.  Didn't look up or over.

His tiny fingers pressed against the pull and flew away.  No more mouth.  No more mind.

She stood up.  “Okay.  My turn.”

drink so we can be dumb

and our hot faces

wadded and wet,

smiling,

unaware of the spit

following each
misspoken word

love, the city of

the land wore winter

bore its complicated art

wrapped its thawing melody

around the sound

we sat and listened while

spring dewed and buzzed

a glass of wine for the two of us

rippling as the bells toll

i won't

why the fuck

can't i be great?

had i roots and leaves

i'd sure as shit

save you

or a few

in my shade

played in a prayer

we laughed and

floated forward and

we were ten again,

squinting at angels

in the dusty distance

some seven or

eight hillside stars

kicking up sand

and spirits to the South

we flickered and flared,

glowing with hunger and

hope

playing in a prayer til

we faded out, too.

The Calmness

Were there tears in my eyes, I'd be none the wiser. I looked forward: everything was dimmed and dewed–a beautiful glossed quality after the downward gush, the delicate burn. The thickness in my neck and chest stopped bothering me after a few seconds. I floated for some time.

Had I been sweating, I'd be none the wiser. I looked left and then to the right: the fabric covering my arms shifted with a darling pliancy. For what seemed like hours I noticed each thing: each blink, nostril flare, finger twitch, abdominal spasm. Now: the blue-dark from behind my eyelids versus the wax lens nature of my sight were nearly indiscernible, nothing was different. Everything was the same, only greying.

My saliva and urine mixed wonderfully within this makeshift womb, a temporary temperature difference was a fleeting distinction. I waded and sank in my medium, this reclusive palette of warmth and waste. How merciful He must be–I'm breathing my own spit and piss and all I can do is smile!