Friday, February 16, 2007


I see life gone down,

fan blades that beat

down, raven intruders

shooting out

their articles of abandonment.

I want


to ravage me again

with his precision

lips, undecided

fingertips subject

to denial yet holding on

all the Nola while.

Is there a bus

I can ride

to the destination I’ll never reach

the lust I’ll fail to obliterate, the

hardness I step out of

as ghost collapsing armor

Louisiana falls

California calls, promising

such thin walls.

New York waits, potent uncertain,

while I stand behind

heavy red curtain.


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