I rotate round your fecund slickness, ptolemaic and
undeterred, the happenstance of mismatched starcharts killing
mnemosyne alone.
I climb into your stares,
Breathe only mutual aspirations,
even in the wake of altercation, the altars of my adoration, adulation,
unaltering
unfaltering
true.

For my dearest M.N., recovering at last: Though the title may seem harsh, if you put plurality in its place and restore the precedence of ‘M’, suddenly all-encompassing circumstance (and even tragedy), becomes bearable, if restrictive and itchy.

Finesse mines buried listless,
(kissless)
incubate them, intubate them,
incur their greatest toll,
and desist detesting detonation,
else disarmed embrace the loss —

a few fewer joints,
no bloody knuckles,
fingerless, thus without blame,
emerging manicured in unkempt sway and
again shouldering,
soldiering,
a lovely heart’s cruel weight.

Despair spares not the sparrows,
Disparity, sparse speros spars:
Paring par until perhaps,
Without pardon
Life is lost.

I sent you a package
It is neither pertinent
Nor urgent
I don’t know if you’ll like it
But I sent it
For you
So shouldn’t that count?
I sent you a package
And the postage covered
The cost and
Your name
But I promise I wrote it
So shouldn’t that count?
I sent you a package
With a disconnected, corresponding
Note
After three drafts
An unstudied
Unimportant sentence and my
Summer address

I don’t know where to write about it
But sometimes,
At least once a month
My need to hear from you builds up
Into a stalker-ish urge,
From which I have no recourse
It is funny now to find how similarly our minds work
Though perhaps not funny at all
A little piece of myself that has become you
A series of mutual coincidences

Yeah.

Don’t you realize that it is this loneliness
That pushed me over the edge to start with
The sudden and complete desolation
Of being untouched and spoken to
Spoken for
Or touched but not spoken to?
I am incomplete and unfinished.
I am corruptible and unsatisfied.
I am weak and manipulable.

The only truth is that I am alone, and have been.
We must talk.

Sentience, like mass should not be created
Or destroyed
Its mere existence should guarantee its extension
Transferring through different media
But never quite gone
Never completely gone
Without pain
Or regret
Or indecision.

Rapunzel,
If you had undone your locks,
I could have done more than scale your tower.
Rapunzel,
If you had offered your ‘cord,
I could have called on you in your bower.
Over your guard of stony distance,
Over your walls of strong resistance,
I could have said hello.

Fingernails full
Of cells
Entropic
Scratched from my back
To be washed down the drain
Of my shower:  I lack
A proper campaign,
Misanthropic
Death-knells,
A cull,
Or a gain.

Feigned nonchalance does not fool
My body
Your solace is arrhythmia
The wobbling, teetering
Too-loud heartbeat Of
your captive
Pen-mate
Your solace is arrhythmia
A fluctuating victory
Whose only term:
I suffer.

And I, broken
Would be yours
Is that it?
I would,
I’m sure.
And yet,
Only your craving for chaos
Would make me stay.