milk & cookies

dream escape me but tonight
i had one, i did, i
was smoking gold
cigarettes, no, no,
i said there was smoking
gold ziggurats, adorned
with tropical morning
glories gesturing toward
the firmament, aka you
massaging your dead
pine needle fingers
inside me: minerals grow,
their faces bloom yeasty
right where i'd love you to
please rub my back, it hurts
for days after we meet, i can't get tired
of that feeling, your swelling,
your urgency, your to-be sand
strewn acres striated
like maps leading us
astray. i'm not sure
what i'll do
if autocorrect ever stops
working, ever stops capitalizing “god"
without asking
first. how many doors
open for me
automatically, it's damned
sorcery, the algorithms,
the canned heat
lightning, the calculus
for tracking planets written
on petals and doused
in vats of buttermilk and secret
things carefully placed
in disarray, old
deep fryers stacked
together like lobster traps
rusting through winter
under load bearing yew
branches. i fevered,
pawing at your vellus hair,
listening to time coagulate,
reminding myself
your plane leaves soon
and you do too, because you'll be
on that plane, transporting
you to an else
where i'm not, but there's
a chance i'll be back
in town, the boys always are
seemingly in a constant
mind to out me for my high
class taste, for the way my mattress swamps
us up inside, for dissonant info
propagated regarding northwestern clades
or for having a long
list of colors with names
we've already started to forget, tilleul, cesious,
corbeau, names too precious
to lock up, so i steal
flowers too
heartbreaking for
me, i can't
stand it, i won't,
i know they're not
meant to live, they're to watch
misbegotten heirs die
behind curving glass
jars i left
under lamplight
until finally the water
molded and i chose exile
for the remains, at least
there they'd be unappreciated
and safe. i hope
that's not too boring
for you, we
can't get distracted
by how weird ears look,
that's it, that's the kind of shit
that makes the news
these days. these days
i sit and armchair
theorize what medium
most becomes you,
i plot out graphs, charts, mispronounce
words on purpose so you'll see
i'm irreverent: to hide
a refrained hunger
from you, to shield
my holy biota, to let
you know my body is an awful place
to hold a soul, so
instead i'll use it to build concrete
pylons to keep from the waves
a cedar planked house
raised above a bouldery
beach, glabrous
unripe blueberries, piles
of kestrel shit
spread across
our boardwalk, meticulously catalogued
in shadow boxes
built from wood
hewn from trees
we grew ourselves