Wednesday, April 23, 2014

npm: 04.23


When young I kissed you once.
I remember because we knocked teeth
because you were handsome
dressed for work--
you had a truck.

All my favorite writers
lived with fists and pens,
unshaven faces, switchblades,
hearts outside
thrust on sticks.

One summer,cramped cars and mugs of malt--
I wanted trouble
more than trouble wanted me,
grown baby in the weeds.

And then blood and sleep.
Incisors of our brittle weeks

because romance changed faces
it wasn't the bar anymore
it wasn't the broken
or brick leaning patrons of our
older affections and their small town bands
no more winking over neck
amused by youth as
ashtray goes above sea level--

carriers of decay, restless
in our abandoned boats
beards to our bellies
yet still--


surviving ourselves


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