Almost every man I know talks too goddamn much. All my
favorite poets are women & gods. What I really miss is the
pavement at midnight, my elongated shadow. There are
mornings when the hunger pulses through me, when I just
want to see a man die like an ox in a flooded field, where
every witness is swallowed at once by a minute of silence,
then continues the work of living. It’s not that I’m thirsty
for blood. I just want to be alone & with you at the same
time. G told me long ago she thinks I’m cold & I responded
for years by writing on shreds of paper, my mind is on fire.
She slipped them into her mouth & waited for the wet
grass of a man she could love. On my sternum there is a
thumbprint from where you pressed a seed into earth. G
told me, to be us is to die, before we kissed on the hood of my
car. I charged up & doubled down against my own death.
Years ago, I stole the necessary tools to bleed my idols & I
haven’t stopped drinking since that first cut. They’re buried
in my garden now, whispering into each other’s ears, fingers
wet with blood & water, combing through your hair. Two
suns live behind my eyes & while one rises, the other sets.