trophies and the taciturn

Take me into you.
Take me in like the last lingering beads of heat,
as the remnants of summer cling to the suckling breast of fall,
hang on-
Hold tight to the rush ,
arms clenching veins pushing back, into
the final hoorah of summer's sex.
Self love in the bathroom.
Some sort of plain cubicle with its dusty tile sores,
its reckoning-
Olive ceramic beckoning and backwards light switch,
the splash-splotches of nondescript gray cloud plaster clusters
and the lack of window is still inviting,
however briefly.


Sweat globules seep slowly.
Damp hairline and now bleeding into those chestnut strips of bangs,
stale and somehow still novice-
Unseasoned in this birth of season,
like the chewed bones of sea or grandma carpet
the color of Redwood bark.
Blackberries ripen rapidly in this air.
Stilled breath pocket for old pangs,
pressed roughly against the counter edge and driven like horizontal rain-
His hill country underestimated patience,
as the stormy redhead's ruddy cheeks place in her
an eerie and enigmatic calm,
a beloved echo for her own roots unparalleled
as Red scavenges for cigarettes and
his chipper black-clad form molds itself to the football futon.


Stove-top pot jolts.
Packed tight heat waves,
like familiarity of regularity, the cathartic tea aims to soothe-
The blunt end of those reflections
or maybe it's the feathered fedora curls that simplify,
bulls-eye,
tongue-rub out the stamps of months passed.
Smooth stimulus.
Scratch your coated teeth upon enamel sheen,
watching a certain red-wine stupor stumble to the fridge-
Meteoric dozing and douse of second-round shrimp,
the filtered water tastes like blank slate and mobile home memories
that are not quite your own.


Cool air crispy-creeps.
Suddenly radioless room and the smell of meat,
temperature summoning and reeks of classroom flings-
Old French movies,
black and white and steaming tea mugs of last year
(always the Queen of Selection)
recalling the half stranger with a knack for black humor
and wordplay sliding his cold hands up the steaming curves
of beneath-the-shirt.
Lips flawlessly pushy.
And the not-quite-bedtime memories overpower,
the heated panting and lonely bed smudged with dirt-
Avoided like hush that night the apocryphal shotgun leaned into the corner
and he whispered into your silence,
sweetened the itch of skin.





Tonight muscles bunch around bones
and dreams are side by side
assembly lines of vitamin warriors like movable mountains,
a sort of St. John's wort mood.