Hunting Season

Old Mr. Flood



Old man and the sea,
simply for you I flee:
I chase the flailing limbs of sweaty hides
and swallow or graze
the subtleties of these honey nights.

And under
lamp-lighted grill your cowboy shadows,
those brutally sententious features
disheveled and exposed.
tender October moon.

a celebrated time that feels a lot like
When I stain myself with the cinnamon mush
sauce of apples
and I hear your voice in my ear,
or see you in your fall sweaters.
While you read your epic novels
and watch your old vampire films and melodramas
you take on a sort of timelessness
to me
that feels like moist forests of
deep flame
surpassing the most antiquated of ship songs
or the grain
of grandfather clocks.

Gold skin shiny stretched tight
and cracking
in just the right places,
the first kiss
when i felt as though my heart
were nothing but an enormous flower.

The darkness beyond the windows,
the streetlight etchings
of gravel cooling
and blinding those glassy depths
with primal freedom.
Rusty with ragged loss
of control but slick and pliant
with coatings of throbbing frames.

Bubbling threshold of need,
circuits of the present presence of
wooded portals
and crackling brush.

Your margin of power in the wracking waves
of silhouetted contours
beneath the rims of silvery lot,
the peak of picking season.
Ripe fringes of lashes laid
flat across pale plains
of roseate electricity,
the moment of barely grasped periphery
of all that will be undone.







You break upon me,
simultaneous death[drowning] and salvation



I stopped believing
and it was still there.

this is when you know
it is real.