love face

Let your love face
lift off.

Let your love lift
face off.

Let your lost life
drop off.

Let your alone face
bleed young.

Let you love face
phone home.

Allow your moonbeams
to swing on --

Allow your body
to feel home.

Allow your mind,
this is our phone.

Allow your body,
this is our womb.

Allow us this:
we are a womb-bound.

Let your love noose
never touch the ground.

Allow your moose hunt
to end before supper.

Let your mother
know your crimes.

She will repent
for you.

Let you mother know
your heart's answer.

Listen: the dog's whine,
her owner's dead.

Listen: a knifefish fumigating
his immaculate home.

Listen to the love-bump
prison, where love is hidden away.

Hide your pride inside your mind
but leave your heart on your sleeve.

Let your body hug (or be huge by) the shore
or let the shore undermine your ideals.

The shore is here and the river is there
but we are together, wow.

Let your love face
list off:

One, Two, Tenciltown.
Three, Four, Fordham-bound.

This is the story of a young man
with a passion for cooking.

The story of a youngster with locks.
Looking for the perfect barber.

Looking for the cozy home;
looking for the only home.

This is an immaculate prison
in which I've never been.

Hey chick, I'm at a loss for words,
but maybe you can lend me

a boot or a paper to shoo the birds
like pigeons.

This is as cozy a bone
as I've ever seen bleach white

in the [ dread ] Mojave sun.
The animal once lived

and now it's dead.
Let your love face

lift off. Let your
love life

brace open. Let your dimpled
heart mourn more openly

or instigate crimes for a
lack of budget. Let your hope
die where your tracks do,
in the river.

Let your body roll to the stove
if in life you cannot find

an answer to your riddles. I didn't
mean that last part, I didn't

dream the sex scene with a sister.
Somebody's, maybe, but not mine.

I heard we've all been kids before,
I've heard all kids of things.

I've heard there are drugs for
people like me. "There's something

peculiar about you, kid," but
I'm not trying to say this.

Let your body open
like you're about to cook.

Take this jar, honey, and
give it a twist. I don't

know how many sentences are
left. I don't know about the metaphor

where words are murder. Bars of
jail are windows of soul, narrow,

released from their place by
a shimmering sound of a burden

being lifted. That was too hopeful:
being dropped. The man falls out

of the home he built with his hands.
Of course they're his own.

The man falls out of favor
with those he's given allegiance.

Is there a sadder story? Try this:
it happens every day. 29 years old,

reticent to appear a seamstress, a beautiful
woman died yesterday. She was 29. She was

walking down the stairs, high heels and a
day bag. I have died like this before,

in my mind, hoping for something I can't
find. I have died before in the motions
of doing something, never done right. I've
made too many furrows to get out of this spot.

I really believe in reading in to what's meant. I
believe that words having friends, is part of it.

I believe that doing this matters but
not all silent like a bobcat, but a bobcat

has dignity. This is a principle that I've called
a virtue. Principles have virtues that birth

whole homes of people on welfare. Left
or right we find ourselves eventually,
let's say it has something to do with closet space.
You cannot be too careful about what you pay for.

(Or work, you
pray for.)

I have never donated to a single cause
and I have no boys or blankets of my own.

I'm the shop-owner type, w/ my 5-year plan
and some croutons baking in the stove.

You know, vegetarian. Practice tai-kwan-do
on the weekends in my Prius. Got a daughter?

Yeah, I bought her. With a lighter and some
legos at the Shop-n-Smart. Saving while you're

shopping smart. What more could you ask? I believe
you'll read into this whatever you like. I can't
stop. I believe you'll read whatever your life
's like. I can't stop you. Let me. Your face.

Hold it. Your eyes, emboldened. Think about *her*
again, trying to use italics in an all-text

art-space. Her again, a decade later, your
first love can still kill you. Too many
deaths. Too many harpoon fights. Too many
wounds, right? Too many cocoons tonight

to lay and to set,
up as traps. I can't let you. I can't

love you. I can't deny you. I won't try you.
Please just stop it, please just

maybe let me know. Let me know. Let me go.
I'm trying here, baby, my lovely,

I'm really trying. Maybe you'd admire
the effort: but I'm leaving. Like the train
to the sunset, the whistle from it. Not
like people mean it. My own way.

I'm leaving. I never loved you. That's a lie;
or, curse the day I doubted

myself. Just a fucking hairpin turn anyway,
into an alley with the Omega crowd:

Alpha, cats, dogs, Romeo, chocolate,
Galileo, telescopes, censorship, apprenticeships,

moonlighting, Juliette, you know, the fable,
the life spun wrong from the silver chains

to the fumigator, again, in the corner.
The people who have embraced steamers. I'm

really trying, honey. I'm really trying.
It's good to know this. I'm really trying

to notice me. Let yourself go. That's a moonbeam,
again. Again a notice. A soft felt item. Something,

you know, you wear. Let your love lift
your face off. Let your love life

take it's own heart. Take it's own life
seriously for once, this is our heart. This is

our heart. You and me, one in the same person.
I'm a crowd of bone diggers, realistically.

Let your fight begin. Light your mind and spin.
Just add an onion. Left and right and let's begin.

Let your love face
lift your home down. This is our time;
this is our crowd. Let your love life
make your face red. Let your love home

become your gem mine. Let your love frame
hold your face right. Let your camera
cloy your back shut; anger; sadness; white
brights and darks again. Bugs and temper(ature) and
seduction. The immaculate beating steaming
dreaming car-pile of American sunsets.

I'm bereaved baby, let's eat. Let your love
life, make your face heard. My body's talking
but my wife's home, and I've yet to find her.
Searching biscuits and cooking spoons,

in a boiling baby breeze.
This is real life;
now live it.
Wildfires.