(toward the light)

we have finally outdone ourselves.
when eye to eye i can tell
we both know it. it is better
just to hold hands. the mescaline stands
up inside me, paces like a caged animal.
it rubs its wrists together
i am rubbing my wrists together, now massaging
my eyes for the light show. there is nowhere
else to look. i laugh for minutes because
i bought this, these neurons firing
into each other,  crying and snotting
and unbridled awe using money grandma sent
for valentines day. she doesn’t even like me
having a drink with dinner. i can’t think
of a better way to use up
this celebration of love. i heard recently
that mostly rich kids do drugs heavy
anymore because it’s all too expensive.
it’s good to have grandmas
with underused checkbooks,
good to afford both dinner and psychedelics.
sad this is another bought pleasure but
it is a bad time to be sad. we know
we are through the thick of it
when we can look at each other again
and like it. ten hours in we lay on the limbs
of a bur oak like big cats, talking
about other times we were high
while hikers walk the ridge beneath us.
i want to grow into this tree:
a resting spot, a way to get closer
to sky.

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old girl

i imagine waking for the first time in three days
the neck of my mandolin clutched in my fist, both
of us missing our bodies, metal strings wound around
my arms, leaving termite lines in the skin of my wrists.
i would want to find bits of her around the room
saying from her throat: you do not remember, but
i was here. my earrings awash in the sea of your sheets –
they fell out or maybe you yanked them, clenched so hard
they poked holes in your palm.

Tripped Up

Edges of his reason fragment:
eyes falling up, back, he burrows
between his own lungs, liquid
thrumming ribcage filling cavities, rising
like vomit in his throat
until it bursts behind his teeth –
sobs cracking like eggs on the boardwalk.
Too full to tell, the safety
of kaleidoscope vision rearranging
shards of cattails and sky into the curve
of his mother’s mouth.

crushable things

I have never fucked a man
who smoked cigarettes,but
he would be a good lover.

He his comfortable with his hands&
mouth, flick filter end with tongue point.

he is used to holding crushable things
carefully. nicotine before breakfast.

And I am certain he must be patient:
he will surely spare his time
to ensure woman’s orgasm if he spends
his life ensuring he’s dying.