Metaphors

We’re fighting.
I’m telling you that any metaphor
That you have to explain or introduce is
In actuality,
A bullshit metaphor.
And you say…
No, it’s not.
And your smile is a blanket.
And the way you stir your tea is a humming bird.
And your face is a seventy-five watt bulb.
And your breasts are happiness.
And your kisses are lobster dipped in melted butter.
(your beauty is a metaphor)

Conversation

It’s like hearing an expensive plate being smashed
(and you know it’s expensive just by the way it sounds)
When she talks.

Sodium

Waves lick
The mist-thickened air,
And the salt sits
On the wave’s tongue,
And it is thirsty.

Being a Poet

Yeah,
I sometimes tell my friends,
Given the opportunity,
I would totally have fucked e.e. cummings,
Or Allen Ginsberg,
Or Charles Bukowski.
Shakespeare, or Richard Brautigan.
But that’s not really true.
I would romance Shakespeare,
Fall uncontrollably in love with Brautigan,
Screw Cummings,
Fuck the shit out of Bukowski,
And make sweet love with Ginsberg
Until the humming birds rapped
The windows with their wings,
And it was time to dress
And slip out unnoticed,
With a post-it note
Clinging
Steadfast
To his refrigerator.

Sunlight Shower

You,
Laying there
Like some divine painting on display,
From some long dead artist’s
"Blue phase"
Or, perhaps, "grey phase".
Each part of your ocean wave body
Curving perfectly in rich granite
Morning sun.
And that one section
Where the yellow sunlight has
Splashed upon
Your breasts, and just the tip of your chin…
That part of your body,
Framed
Itself,
In this skewed square of
Melted butter sun
Is perfectly magnified
And illuminated.

Taxi Cab

It was a
Oneinthemorning
Afterworkintherain
Taxicabride
Home.
And the driver’s voice
Sounded like all of history’s
Sitcom grandfathers singing simultaneous baritone.
And hearing him bellow
"Ten-four"
Over his radio…
It sounded like an old boat
Rubbing against a wooden dock
When the algae has just been cleaned off
And the friction speaks to you.

love is an awful lot like a black hole (OR: love is an awful lot like a dying star)

In his youth he enjoyed running full speed along cliffs
With his sneakers so near the edge they nearly levitated over the drop.
Waking was like throwing thousands of tiny pebbles
Into a pond
And looking on anxiously to see what will happen.
Now all he cares to do is spend his time writing about her.
And he likes writing about her
Just after she has left
So that he can still feel her tingle on his lips
And her numb in his chest.
Rose, he writes.
Let me craft this poem using stars as punctuation
And forming words with the fine illuminated lines
Of these four constellations.
Let me use the milky-way to describe your breasts
And carve your eyes from the waning crescent moon.
Your hair falls across my chest on infinite mornings
Like a thousand comet tails
Racing around your face at a million miles an hour.
Your heart beats against me as consistently as gravity,
And your fingers clutch,
Fearing
That I will become a black hole,
And you are not prepared
For such a departure.
Rose, he writes.
The sun has gone down on today.
Your faith has set on my fidelity
And the rain is now beating against my skin.
In these clouds the light from the moon has been replaced
By the lamplight from your bedroom window,
And I stand bathed in your lunar glow.
Let me pause the rain as it falls
And stop your tears from dripping,
And absorb them both with kind words and gentle caresses.
Let me compare your eyes to the puddles at my feet.
Your mood controls the weather
And I am swimming in your rain,
Desperately remembering your sunspots and granite grey moon nights.
Let me bathe my sin in your sorrow.
Let me cool you with my wet body
And dry my dripping clothes with your kindness.
Rose, he writes.
Let me catch your leaf on the wind descent
And hold you in my hands until your body grows brittle,
Crumbles,
And jumps into the wind.
The grass is on fire with autumn
And the leaves are disintegrating under my footsteps.
Let me warm you during open windowed nights
And leave you laying in frost.
Let me lick your apple seed eyes
And describe your voice
As the breaking of brittle grass under high heels.
Let me explain to you that your presence
Is like a leaf caught in that delicate dance between grasping branch
And coarse concrete.
I am weightless when I see you.
Rose, he writes.
It is another crystal evening.
Your eyes are stars
And speaking with you is discovering constellations.
Let me wrap you in moonlit clouds
And put you to sleep with the sounds of galaxies exploding light years away.
I met you years ago,
And lying here you are light years away.
And I will let you bathe in my final red glow,
Before I collapse into myself.
And,
Reaching up tenderly
As if not to break a flower printed plate
In an antique shop,
He places his hand behind the moon,
And uses its lemon peel glow to finish his last sentence.
Rose.