watery-green-tea

it's the morning of Tuesday June twenty fifth, and the fog, again rolls in against lima and listlessly scales the escarpment and Dana (like I) high on cocaine and circumstance has gone with Chris and Cameron, to watch from the cliffs (this time something loose has shifted, and I hope they kiss). and Corey is here asleep to my left tired from a whole day of travel and Dana calls her an insomniac but I think she's at rest. And an empire is how she took off her shirt and gold is the way she doesn't object when I trace maps in her back and put an ear to her chest. because I don't know who this is or why my fantasies fixated here, but they work

Your color is the color of black-and-white art, of driving through the rain in a night without color while the radio plays songs of comfortable colors, of taking a nap in the middle of the day with the shades pulled shut to a world without color, and of eating ice cream (white, without color) while sitting on the couch while the rain runs gently on the windows in the sunroom in streams of uncolor. Maybe I like you because me and you are like different sides of an uncolored coin, differently textured and differently shaped but you and me-we- are still the same color.

i, too, can write passion poems: (and if you were a rose I'd pick you and stick you in water till you withered and died and everyone would comment on your color and refined shape.) so lets collide with night through our noses: wake to your banging fist on my swinging door and binge on bad ideas and beatless songs till distended with poetry we grow ill and collectively shit sunsets onto those 365 well-ruled pages        that we pray to in pews in this church of hedonists--        every book a bible, all manuals for masturbation. so at dawn we criticize the sunrise, hang ourselves from the belltower, for kicks or lash limbs tog