Thursday, October 14, 2010

mcclxix

I go to bed mathematician
wake up closeted heap.   A
heap in the closet worth two
in the bush?   Maybe.   But
don’t crotchet.   If wishes
fools an apple a day, etc.

I’d cry at pop-tarts, smooth
butter my tears.   Don’t
yell at me dating getting
anything but sex.   I’m dis-
something.   Dissatisfied,
dissipating.   It gets my

goat until I’m fried.   I
feel right now I have
nothing to feel guilty.
Only responsible
shackles a tundra
without lotion.

Mocks my heap?   A-
wake is not always
more alive.   A good
thing you walked in.
A tussle over love is

worth every scrape.
I’m no closeted met-
aphor anymore, linger
at every nib of your
sass and your coaxing.

Gentle anniversary of
my thawed-out winter
come hither.   A yawn-
ing sofa warmer than
a tanning bed.   My

Florida.   My
Miami.