Upper happy valley road.
Pole dancing at midnight
with free loving, societal orgy,
middle of the Kinsey scale.
Sweety, I’ll call you once a week
and transport myself into the city
to carry on intimate dialects
about the things we attach ourselves to
and that which we let leave on the last bus.
Talking over a spoonful of cinnamon
about your sugar daddy,
I loved him too
and his chocolate covered accent
coated in utopian flavor.
And he said, she said, we all said
people make up our memories.
Dancing into tomorrow, skipping over yesterday
masturbating today with a pen
and a few words.
Do you wanna go?
And I didn’t
but I walked away anyways
with the smell of peppermint, mucus vomit
coding my heart
in parking lots filled with
ghosts pushing shopping carts
and Orion’s belt somewhere up there
in the skunk fumes
and gasoline streaming from an acrylic Buick
that’s trunk I talked about sexing in.
Breathless, smelling of latex and come- lets
take a walk barefoot
through the emerald forest
until you and I
reach a form of jubilation
they do not teach in the rule books.
Your kiss was mothballs and bullshit.
It wouldn’t have hurt you to show up
before the scream manifested
and the mold grew
from the mattress we laid on years ago
in the days when
tie-dyed, turquoise rainbows danced in our hugs.
I suppose knowledge is power
being taught by cello strumming phantoms
that lurk in half open doorways
smelling of old spice and suave
like the babble that spewed from your lips,
enveloping these words that are
nothing more than material goodness
so that I can say "I love you,"
because baby,
you’ve got the best damn forearms
I’ve ever seen.
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