A Post-factual Romance

I met you in a magic way

The morning after 

A long night 

When my laughter rang strong

I think you tasted my 

Heartbeat-shade-lipstick

in the alleyway kiss of a lifetime 

And guessed 

that I come from a time that remembers 

Blood must be pumped into the brain

Before its first command is spoken

You are also well versed in the 

weaknesses of brains

Tricks of perception

Yes, there are facts of reality

But we all know the word is fiction

Spaceships don’t scare those who remember

oxygen is just a group of letters

You pushed me

Against the cold-graffiti-shutters

I felt my back press onto a warm bed of feathers

That was the moment I knew 

brave-lovemaker

Your art is building the world I want

A world where the heart is remembered

Lost Coverage

There is a tactile love

that grabs you in your sleep

A love of

kisses that once killed Keats

We live in a world of tailgating 

easy lovers

brashly hopeful for a fortunate accident

But the memory of touch 

is from a back-alley affair

the kind that makes overfull stomachs ache

and windswept hairs stand 

as we frigidly shake

Naked, uninsured

A blue-road accident

unwitnessed, unfortunate

leaves me nothing but a scar

in settlement

be warned that

a left-handed lover 

does not negotiate

and

for years to come you will receive

Morpheus-Mail

bills to remind you that

your damages 

must still be paid

Sail On, Silver Girl

A puppet of hate is only
As much as the connectomes
(semi-consciously)
pulling the strings

We are the food we eat
the air we breathe
the water we drink

If we are to unite the world with us,
then:

We must share our organic bread,
plant trees also in our neighbors’ yards
publish blueprints for clean water

Let us not mistake fear for hate
Let us seek to understand
And let us remember hope
everyday

For each of our troubles is all consuming
And each of our stories will be quilted
into the blanket for an inevitable winter

Let more of us be made of wool than of paper

Love is remembering
That every one of our neighbors
is made from love
and only schooled in ideology

Listening is hard work
But it is knowing the tune
That makes for song

And music exists equally
in city; village; church and crackhouse.

Intimacy & Inflation

It is a lane for slow walkers:

a graduated pipette carefully 

dispenses just enough

(chemistry)

A process of preservation.

We won't flash-freeze 

our Familiarity. 

Avoid brittle bones;

We will, gently,

chill it.

But

Each time I look at you

Is like a museum visit.

The uniformity of the mole 

by the ridge 

of your nose

Is a monument 

to my nostalgia.

Like Grand Central, 

in lieu of tired metal:

You are even sweeter,

For my pink-eye. 

A journey of recovery. 

The supple

hearts can afford 

this cost

of overcompensation.

It is bad math

(good economics).

The colder it gets, the warmer

Last summer becomes.