Unsigned

all these clouds outside my window made a nice bib for
an especially sloppy pie eating contest sunrise, all
kinds of berries smeared. now it's pigeon shit gray
with the shopping carts clanking down the alleys. all
the traffic lights winking like betty page.

you read that inscription that i felt a little queasy
and naked writing in my chicken scratch two minutes
before i saw you, but wrote it anyway so you could
find it *later*. maybe when you felt like fishing for
it. maybe stumbling on it drowsy before you went to
sleep. maybe with stuff ahead of your day---hopefully
something nice that you could arch your spine to when
you thot about it, like the way your whole body sighed
and curled a little when you talked about dancing all
over the place.

*LATER* being the key fucking word, natalie.

you shouldn't say certain things to me, you know. when
you told me you read that paragraph i sent you the
other day out loud to yourself---to get the/my voice
right!?---jesus fuck, i wanted to club you on the
spot. toss you over a shoulder and find a nice
hospitable cave with a cool breeze and a mattress with
no sheets or blankets. me as the only alternative
smirking heat source. you can't say things like that.
not in that little unsure voice that changed when it
came out.

especially since you turn me into a pack rat. just
sorta wanting to keep a bunch of stuff that i didn't
have the guts to try and steal even tho i love
stealing. keep your face tucked inside that hood a
little bit longer, just because i like the way it
looks with only a little crinkled, rain-licked hair
against your chin. figure out a way to keep that
antenna inside you bent right so the reception stayed
perfect between your lips and eyes smiling. just
making that sneaky sound in your throat that seems to
surprise and tickle-out certain expressions that i can
mainline. maybe i just love looking at you. i get to say that without feeling guilty because it's true. if somebody pulled out a stop watch over at benny's way back when, i was there in under a second
easy. you don't seem so much painted, as carved. and
you have this effect on me.

i get tense sometimes, nervous, and this fucking
billiard's triangle comes out of nowhere trying to
cram all of me into its ugly shape---so am i allowed
to tell you when i got to touch you the morning you
left this crazy pool cue cracked every ball so hard
inside me, in a thousand directions, all the numbers
burned off?

in oliver there are lots of orchards handy, with
cherries and apricots and peaches hanging out along
the highway eager to be stolen if anyone should happen
to be strolling by. there's a river that snakes thro
the valley for a few miles and i'm told it's higher
and faster than it's been in 40 years and i wonder how
many bridges you've been flushed under because that's
always been my favorite part. there's a lake, half a
mile long, with a raft at one shore shaded by willow
trees, big cozy old thing, that you can take out at
night that drifts a couple hundred yards into absolute
darkness with only the moon drooling on the water and
buttering the sky. and there's a big ass mountain with
the profile of an indian that takes a couple hours to
climb through wild flowers and cactus and the
occasional deer nosing around after you hop the fence
of the farm beneath it and trespass...

this is a little too long, but then yesterday felt a
little too short. your fault on both counts.