Tuesday, October 26, 2010


Meeting new folks (mood set by the lovely Mongrel Jews)
the past pushes from their mouths
with barely an initiation,
the rafters are itching with implication
& your mouth is making my fingers crackle and dance
as the conversation falls too close to the sun.

Like melting wax
handshakes drop from the sky,
the conversation hooks it fingers into moon craters
she winces to a thumbnail crescent.

Astronautical hearts drink deep,
a starry intoxication,
pointed brightness cutting deeper
in familiarity's skin
the words bleed out hot and wet
& after those winged lips give me their drop
I'll be picking wax and scabs for days.

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