Lust, love, attachment ...

Some video on the net

               said scientists claim

     love comes in a 1, 2, 3:

          1 is like the opposite of repulsion

                    (where someone looks edible, not

                      just pleasant to be near but

                      hard not to dig into and

                      wrap around; like you

                    want them in your mouth).

                         2 is like kinetic insanity (where

                                   every high climbs higher and

                                   low lower, chemical {not

                                   rational}, passionate {not

                                   measured}; where you feel like

                                  They're a nutrient you need).

                                        3 is like the end of puberty (where the

                                                  body becomes familiar to itself,

                                                  less aching and red and gangly,

                                                  more cool and solid and thick;

                                                  where, like a callous, sometimes

                                                taken for granted, you trust them to be).

                         A craving, a hunger, a fullness;

          A lust, a love, a bond.

          I'm so glad that science has

     mapped out that space,

because 

I look in her eyes …

    and 

       I'm gone.

No matter what ...

                                   Let me tell you about 'Confidence.'

                              Come in really close.

                           And I'll talk right under

                         The world's nose

                       About nothing.

                   Confidence: it doesn't matter

               Too much the words said.

            It's all in the eyes, through the

       Breath, out the head:

Being trusting.

And it's not for children. No,

      It's for those who've

            Become the ones they look

               Up to, who believe

                   They've grown tall:

                            Even as I am falling down, to

                                   Whisper to you this,

                                             Only was ever the prelude

                                                               To a calming kiss

                                                                                          Or to nothing at all.

Three Valentines ...

Having announced, “Never, nothing,”

 A harlot grew round on

  Sometimes something

    Musical & not.

                    *

          Complacency – you're never told

            Happiness is androgyny:

             Heartache, anger, revelry

               Vying eternally, yearningly. 

                              *

                     Every sky, every heart, every dream

                       Rains itself out once in a while –

                         Yet into that empty moment (thinner than full)

                           Nimbus white, oxygen red, eyelid orange pools.

It's good ...

It's good

To have friends.

     Stupid friends. Delicate friends.

               Friends you have to wait for,

          That overwhelm and bore you

               all at once, giving advice

                              that everyone knows

                                   in contradictive overflows

                              that no one sane

                         will understand.

          It's good to have friends

like those on hand.

It's good

Because then,

     even when no clear point defends

               feeding them your patience and trust,

          watching hours turn to dust while

     They eat, laugh, stroll, talk

Beside you. Some day,

          When you're dense & fractured & can't seem to say

                                                                      What feels sorely,

                                                                 Pressingly true,

                    Those soft savants will spread themselves

                                                       like blankets over dew.

The second cut ...

               There are only so many body parts to puncture.

It used to be fresh, but now's an old trick –

     I know what the rending will feel like …

like a tug, like nothing, that pours blood

     and ages into throbbing (like all aging does)

          Then turns into stiffness (like any trauma),

               And from angst into tedium

(like every stale drama).

It used to be fresh, but now it's anything but:

     It feels more like a memory.

          An old familiar memory –

A sanctual infirmary,

     A septically self-loathing mammary,

          Drying, cracking, and clamoring

               Like a long-aired childhood fantasy

                    That begins to perceive its inanity;

                              To flush out its blush of insanity

All for      chary dreams      lauding dark canopies

(Because      these –          and THESE –      hold majority

     Over good-hearted, breakless revelry

          And the cunning, frameless cookery

               Of young and vibrant anarchy –

                    GODDAMIT I LOVE this wound;      it's me

                                             As much as any analogy:

                                        I ooze and bleed so incessantly;

                                   I crave the wind's medicality,

                              The hot-and-cold's evocatry

                         Of blood in a cleansing circuitry

                    Reaching edges gone ticklish from nursery –

          Overwhelming those rinds into rhapsody:

this THIS is myself as I long to be

     And have been, at center, since infancy –

          Like a dog in-kennel, a silkwormed tree –

               So alive under-shell that on breaking free

          I would writhe at the sting [coursing tenderly],

     Vaulting over old scores, past validity,

Breaking scar – little bonds of conformity –

     And expounding on skin's magic tacitly:

          Where it hides, it grows young, and so ageless we

               Become organs of touch in a timeless sea …

What's a scar but a ledger note, cursively

     Culling dark ink from veins-gelled-with-time to free

          Out that pressure of dull internality?

                    THIS is life.      This is truth.      Overflowingly).

                                        I appreciate you, shell. I do.

               But more so the touch growing under you.

A different kind ...

God mom, I love you.

    You don't make me smile.

 I     sometimes forget      your eyes

For   the arm     on a chair

or the         number of lights

   through a window

    While you skate behind me

        focused on my neck with

             some alien,     gooey love.

      Everywhere's   pink and red,

                       Pink and red,  in class: it's

                              almost   Valentine's

                   And the   sticky kids are

                 dragging     markers through

                    glitter-glue         (they'll ruin

                                 the tip, the       clean tip)

                             to write   about love like

                              a loud,      crowded    thing.

                      It sounds     horrible: guts

                 filled    with insects    and

           cheeks    tingling up

        Into tight lips    and

   wet,  messy kisses     (they'll

                        ruin the space,   the

                                clean space).   Mom,

                      They don't know      my

        quiet,    tender      string:

  I love you like    an

     empty field, like   a light

       so dim    it's    half-shade,

                 Like a word that tastes

            sweeter     every time it comes

          (like a touch-post,        a motion)

                     I know       your love is

              Sticky, mom.         But I care

         for it              anyway.

            I didn't like    hearts,

              so I made       a brown square.

                                          Happy Valentine's Day.

Watched pots boil thoughts ...

                                             Maybe I'm not ready.

                                Or maybe I'm too good:

                        Maybe that creates a gap

                   like a torrent's carving flood.

          Maybe   you're distracted.

             Or maybe you're    too smart:

                   Maybe,    after hurts    on     hurts,

              you'll      end   before     we start.

                Maybe    I'll     surprise   you.

                                   Or maybe    I'm the    same

                    As   every       other        cocky  guy

                                who thinks      he      owns      his     name.

                 Maybe          you're       a    raging             bitch.

      Or sweet,     but then           forgetful:

                                      Maybe     life   '     s          too            busy    now

              and   you '   ll         reply    ,                       regretful,

                        “Maybe we should meet sometime

                          This week, between its ends –

                         We act like we can write ourselves,

                       but every word pretends.

       Sorry I didn't write you back last night.

         I know unknowns are stressful.

 … But really, most of life's unknown –

so you might as well be restful.”

Too young ...

This never used to be a thing.
     The idea [if I were a decade less –

                         19 instead of 29

          looking for pajama pants,

          not a summer dress;

                    for a Greek pledge shirt,

                    not a button-down;

          looking for a pony tail –

                    my dear, I'd chase you now]

That your smile's TOO bright,

          TOO puppy-like,

Coachella makes you TOO happy

                    (I like Blur and Polica too,

                    but not cocks like Benassi).

               I talk to {you} like I

     Never would have when I was 22:

                         I'm so damn smooth

                         and confident and

               Controlled about my id

     That you crawl right in

Like flu heat, beside me

In a waiting room. And

     Every smiling

Word you say is

beautiful and young.

You watch me

As I leave:

“Take care a'

   yourself”

       Wilts off my tongue.