truly happening

slipping in and out

of sleep:

the image
of your hands
pulling at my belt buckle
in such haste;

that brief film, over
and over,

truly happening.

your hands
are so romantic, loving,
possessing of
so much violence

black and white indie,

racing, barely floundering,
over and over,

truly happening.

the foreground and background blur,
and your face is his face
laced in the raindrops
on the window.

the glass:
and there is no one
left behind, just
a hiccough of memory.

the hands that hold the camera shake,
it is truly happening,

and there is no
telling apart.

On a diet of marijuana and apple juice

I am fairly certain that you are leaving me...
your silhouette is blacker somehow.

another fucking poem about the moon.

Someone told me
a halo around the moon is
a bad omen.

Tonight,
and every night,
if there is a moon,
there is a halo.
It's pollution.

And the sighs
of pleasure or pain
or even ecstasy
are laughed into
the smog --
even if there is
no laughing...
or no moon nor omen at all.

on my mind