And Then There

Bound to sequence,
I cannot find the citrusy
flavor that once creamed my youth.
Taste buds lay on
lady bugs that fall from
old, citrusy rooftops.
The coughing stomach shakes
with nerves as crooked panda
stares and keeps on
so I exchange 1:
I’ll lick your hand if you lick mine
and we can call ourselves learned.
And what if I told you
this is growing up?

This is it we say together.
World of feathers
evolved into carriages
carrying crates and
crates covering dry sex.
We shouldn’t let them decide,
those processionals of
elite paper-penners
documenting mediocre conversations
meanwhile salivating memories
of fresh watermelon seeds.
The Graduate swam beneath
fading glimpses of post-this love
when rimmed glasses were
much larger and omnisexual
became a legitimate question.

Professional word dyer of sorts,
we morphed into a bad Western
fighting against the wind
to stumble into an empty home.
If I said that "albondigas" were
there waiting for us,
I’d be a lousy friend
with no means to confess but
break into art museums and stare
at white walls- until

The smell of this world becomes
spring time,
becomes fresh rain.
Drinking down mucus flavored mornings,
I watched a prism elongate
into an evening portal
as my heart beats with the
speed of two humping rabbits
not wearing protection.