She waters the dead thing
when I talk about how I’m feeling
pretty ugly inside about the whole scenario –
how it happened
how it didn’t
how it could’ve if we had just known
how it happened and didn’t,
and she says that it will just take some time
to heal and to grow again
but the plant is unkind
to the liquid and soil that overflows,
though she doesn’t notice
*
My mouth wakes
to dirt and plaque and words
about how last night was great
and dirty and I liked how
you did that thing with your thing
and my mouth closes to sleep
and my eyes yawn open
while I kiss her
and she says something
through the metal of her tongue
and the red of cracked lips
that will bruise later on
from that thing
that she is happy
to have found me
and I say nothing because
I am tongue tied
beautifully written start to finish.
better than being young and premature.
Naw, you’re not tongue tied… kissing like that… and as for words? you just save those up for your poems.
i kinda like it… the way you lie.
lay down like a dog, maybe. matters the night.
no, dogs at this point, would be too easy of a reference for my tastes… everybody is doing it.
but the laying lying duality you cued up on is astute.
Matters the drink, boy-o. never the night.
xoxo.
kj
i’ll take it, even if easy. guess i need a different drink. or another night.
Maybe less drink and a real friend. But ok, whatever you do be you, poet. You’re god like Tabby said. I agree your honesty is interesting.
xoxo
kj
I meant good not god. You are not god. Tabby never said god, but this cracks me up… anyhow.
i don’t mind being a good god; those seem out of stock recently. tabby is god, though. good too. always keeps me in check.
awww…you two are cuties. Yes, Tabby has had that effect more than occasionally.
cool beans.