And it begins with a delicate close,

not dismissing so much as a wink or a blink
to really translate recent foreclosures;
so fatal to the blur, these
unoccasioned trivialities that
screw with the mind and the banality of
Every Day.

So I see you now,
someone else.
A different view in my previously
blurred and telescopic goggles
(others call them eyeballs).

You look... better, for some reason.

And at once, I can sigh with peace;
for now, all the tumult has dissipated
like the coming of seasons, and the onset of
either famine or floods;
they vanish eventually-
such tremor in a twilight disguise;
all gone now.
Vapor sewage
Gone, invisible track

except into my locket chest,
sealing our story with
gauze and hot glue.

You've patched me up--
where did you learn how to sow?
(Although it's arguable you've
undid the seams--unintentional threads
on your brink and mine,
not meant to be interlaced).

A wise man once said to me
indirectly
the truth about life: It Goes On,
he said. And I'll learn to consult
his therapy educated and pristinely;
primly, cleanly, and proper.

So you're just a girl

So you're just a girl who needs some
extra boost and shake to think,
"Man, this is how I want to feel
and I'll damn-well-please feel this way."
(Just saying.)
Muttering things to yourself on
blank-paged moleskins priced for
nearly half of what it's worth--
though, in the end, if it's worth
your dignity sparing and
ballooning integrity (full cup,
brimming with it), I guess it's worth
the buy.

"Damn-well-please,"
you'll feel how you want,
no longer streaking your shirts
for a spark of acknowledgment;
nor leaving your bra strap 'twined
irrelevantly round your pinky.

Heavens to goodness,
it's all in the interior folds,
(not exterior molds, fungal facials
and other unnecessary productions).

Once a Boy

Once a boy, always a boy.

A lapdog hung by string roots
shot by barbed wire
stretching; an unequivocal menace
in the killing fields. Fields that
boast of legacies that sneak
young boys with shrapnel,
it coaxes with chocolate-covered piety
and offers it to the Legacy of America.
(Once a boy, always a boy.)

Twice wounded, thrice glittered
by a (machine gun) that sparkled
sanguine stars on some mangled thing
of a body; enamored by the
sweet shrill of the rifles
humming some new upbeat single.

The boys wound round—wind-up dolls
in a frisky unorthodox tango,
as if on a showcase being judged by
Big Brother, on a scale from one to ten,
despite letters addressing their
lonely gals back at home,
unsure of which direction their
feet are forced to run;
courage strength be-a-hero,
America!
is their surrogate lover,
that is, if not already flirting with the
smokin’ mine bombs,
sizzlin’ blood on a half-faced man,
steamin’ missiles defecated by planes,
rumor has it.

I can't do this anymore.

I won't allow you.

To this girl I know,

You inspire me; really.
(not minding the wear and tear),
You Go For It
and speak with a set head.
Though you've weaved,
'round my wrist,
a tie-dye reminder that
"Yes. It will be all right."
That,
"Yes. Things will be okay
if you Try."
You're over the past
like the knot that you tied
(the bunched ending of the lead sequence
of the trip--when there's too much
tryptophan),
I believe in the transcription;
and I can only hope to
transcribe what you've demonstrated
so professionally mature.
(I'm following you this time.)