Is it possible to be "home" now?
I feel like I have been
eaten alive
upon my return,
and it has been less that 24 hours.
Indiana:
"Tap tap" two orange handled shovels hit thier square heads against the dirt and roots at the bottom of the tree.
Two men holding them,
raising them,
dropping them -
weeding.
Julie behind me,
her fierce head covered
in a baseball cap.
Coffee, Sharpie, new journal,
humid breeze, cement square,
Pall Mall's.
Bleeding. Heavy.
Warped Tour, Part III:
What the fuck?!!
Can I really sweat this much?
Ms.Young feels like
something from home
in this humid zone
and I wonder if I sound
stupid
saying so.
. . .
The sunsets have been
so spectacular
that I could not erase them
even if I tried.
The connection is soft and sweet
but deeply sexual
and full of heat.
What is it that offers her allowance
to run away with me
evertime I show up on her
blacktop/dirt stoop of transience?
I want to flip her
hold her down:
pull her out
of what she holds so close:
watch her scream
as it rips away
and flies
into the summer's heat.
I want to reach so far into her
that she cannot breathe -
so that when air returns
it is fresh
and new
and exciting:
and never quite the same.
Another sunset passing -
this time in a field of lightning bugs.
The moon rose dusted
by speckled clouds
that made faces at us in the
yellow glow of nite.
She catches lightning bugs,
or tries to at least,
we talk of today
and of our many yesterday's
she kisses me
Her eyes brought the drunk to my blood,
the heat brought the high to my head.
Two Boca Burgers later
we're saying another good-bye.
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