The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea (2)

Skating diagonal, downward, meteoric
Charred with pleasure and crashing dissolute,
My robotic lover is nearsighted,
Crudeplastic in appearance.
Even divine choreography escapes
Our reciprocal forfeit, spread like a rash
From the Pacific’s ass to the Atlantic’s mouth. I’m joking.
You’re tired. When we together watch
Those scorned cardinals
Dive fatal unto concrete,
I want to join them,
spellbound, chronically teenaged, spent
flat

Commercial Airliners Dripping Off the Blue (2)

Under a century of nosedive perversions: products
Of shimmering ambition collid’ with the solid cloud
Of dispensability, of spareness.
Catastrophes leap and scatter like moldspores
Flexing their lethality in the vanity and
Caroling of future assassinations,
Admiring themselves plumper, amor perpetua,
Total sloth, giving pass to the impossible
Onanistic wishes spouted by the bird of near extinction.
Spirals in the
Sky spray out eight billion cassette tapes
So anyone on any other planet might wit
Just how thin earthly love has withered.

Salina

To rinse my corpus under sighs of zuma
as the purple horizon slides like an aging
archer’s lasik
reenchantment

Hung from a hook of lunar zygotics
in wait
your blush
If luck
arrives, i’ll be
alive one million mooncycles, right

here: longside a sporeprint
of your laugh
how it pops quick, swells cautious

and dawdles like briskness all pacific june

L'Été Dernier

Catherine, I’m still
young, inside, along
the tender fray of the tumor
plump against my diaphragm
whenever i consider you,

like juries do
videotape. Proof? You’ve none;
I’d perjure straight inside your
heavendunked face (another crime,
like homewrecking, like the many of
mine you’ll never
study)                                                 Anne, Théo:

neither are present, never were, but it might be
on some other rock, you and i could laugh
cough, hack
up knots of branch
for bucolic cheaters to crunch on the sly

until that ruthless frame prances past
and returns us to this
shapelessness, this fist-shaped

deprivation. Je peux pas. Je n’ai rien promis.
Il n’y a pas de nous deux.