Blonds (with and introduction to redheads)

Summer is the season for redheads.
July breathes freckles into the sky.
That is july burning bright red on the horizon gettting greener
I hope this blog explodes.
Explodes like summer on the skin of a ginger,
I am in love with those spots
and I am loving you every moment you accumulate more geography.
I like the distinctions
summer invites into your skin.

Conner/Chase
I like your east coast sweater
all marroon with the collar popped out.
I like you clean cut
and smoking a cigarette like a teenager.
I want to smoke with you.
Or maybe just stand next to your smoking mouth.
I like changing my mind
and smoking that lavender cigarette at 4 am.
I like breathing sage on your waterbed.

Jason
With skin so pale I could sometimes see your veins in your face
and around your round and translucent eyes.
Your were nowhere near ginger.
No need for the sun or summer in your skin.
Eyes softer than a dusky throated sky.
Pale and paling and railing against becoming more invisible all the time.
Outlandish leather posters and sex at your parent's house.
Once in that house and once on the hood of my car.

Ian
The blondness you give me is brittle
the way lightning touches the sand into glass.
I've begun to wonder if you have ANY scars at all.
Your hair is brushing ashy against the sky.
Wide open like the holes in your shoes
our eyes get bigger at every meeting
and NOTHING can escape our unquenchable bouts of whimsy.

Katlyn
I held you in that cold mouth of ocean
the sounds bouncing off our bodies
as I promised that thin stip of a body a little better warmth.
Full blonde breasts in the surf
behind that bikini
which I thought about so easily removing.

Blondes then,
for a while
were off the menu.

Eric
Then
the first one both blonde and ginger
Dreaming of being a redhead.
That dream swooped down,
only crawling up as you stooped all through winter.
Full of stoic amber shine.
You are like an insect in an amber glass eye.
Golden like summer would be if it lasted all year long.
We didn't last that long.
Enough for a season and then some.
It's always good to have some.
Long blonde strands always longer than mine
I remember that day I realized with great dismay,
that I would have to stop looking for gold strands between my bedclothes.

Found another Strand of a different type.
But he is not a blonde or a ginger.
He is mostly dark
and thoughful olive skin all over.
Big features hold to many feelings
all taut in a wraping,
bound up intentions are the best looking when tied down in his words.

Kyle
was my first blond.
Whose Name I won't forget.
I make up trauma about his name.
Unsure of the actual transgression
I know his group of malicious friends used it against me.
Blond and blue in the face.
I though sweet sexless thoughts about him in my thirteen year-old mind.
wanted to touch his nealy invisible hairs just to see if they were real
and not just wisps in my imagination.
Eyes like water.
I think I was afraid that they would rush away at any moment.
I think that might be why I chase them
the blue eyed blond ones.
Everything about them is just so damned ephemeral
at any moment they might just rush away,
temperamental like a tide.

Breakfast

Butter sits decadent next to chocolate on the counter.
Breakfast pits rich,
add coffee
and you've got sweet gravity
churning a singularity in your belly.
Delicious implodes quietly into afternoon.

Rib Spreader memories

Sweet like tide pool childhood.
I am a pilcrow on the back of your neck.
I am sweet potato fries wrapped in brown wax paper
and cradled by a small wicker basket.

In the morning when we were the first to wake
we took up opposite corners of the room
let sunshine be the only language between us.
Your words are still missing places in my torso.
These gaps in my ribcage are swoops and sways in the shap of your name,
like running your fingers over a picket fence.
I am not thumping about you anymore
I am not even making that kind of music.
anyway
what does it matter if I were.

Way back in September
we were just naked mouths jumping reckless into the ocean
And I miss being salty with you
I'd like to reset our bones
and keep something soft between us.
I met you too fast perhaps.
It was right and right and right
and right is not a direction
give me peace and pieces
and I will sort out the remains
make a pile
and graffiti our past lives to the sky,
you are not a willow tree in a hurricare,
that is only be breasts when we fuck
and I am not ready for this to end
is it over?
Because if it is over you can never turn the lights back on.
The lights in a flattened building can never be re-lit.
Are you going fast enough to knit back a contraption
to fuse our being back into closeness and be?

I am too many moon shadows these days
Our names forgetting each other
as fast as our ribs fell together all those months ago
I still need a few more moons
to smooth over the gaps in my torso.

Morning Poem

Woke up dry and fractured.
All moisture seeped out
Body and breasts and belly
are a bay or a river bed dried up.
Crackling with dead fish
and clams that are too afraid to open their mouths.
Patience in the mouth of a barnacle.
Body emptied of tensile strength.
A flattened out hierarchy of discomfort
awkward like a pachyderm in a party dress.

A poem about your name (roughly edited freewrite)

Dream in tattooed tongues,
Velocipeded spoken poetry,
ringing bells,
a tingle crawling upened down the throat.
Red lines collecting along your bottom.
Stop.
This is not a telegram.
Maybe a singing telegrtam.
Bang.
Interrobang.
I'll need to be punctuated.
My sentences running rampant
drying out of ampersands .
No periods in sight.
A blemish at the end of thought.
Spirals attaching through the throat.
Is it over?
I can't remember all the letters you wrote to me.
Does it matter
that I'm still in love with someone eles?
Does it matter?
What is (the) matter?
and how does it?

I had a hurricane meet me
and become a piece inside my body.
Butane beneath the skin.
"Forget me beautiful child."
This week is just that kind of love letter I suppose.
Good thing I still have that plane ticket.
I've never been to New York.
Or Brazil.
Dry mouth and dried out punctuation shouldn't stop you.
You can pick up some pauses
and something wet along the way.
Just start making tracks.
Start with your name.
a poem about your name.