between bookshelves

You are the messy brown hair,
curved stomach,
and pimple-pocked girl
sitting two desks away.

You are arm freckles
and florescent lights,
and you’ve caked on
enough foundation for a week.

You are the cardigan
pulled tight across your bosom
and the pen tucked behind your
ear.

After two hours
you still haven’t noticed
the alder leaf
in your hair.
I would like to pluck it out.
I would like to make you laugh.

You scratch at
the beauty mark
stamped across your collarbone,
and I tingle.
I try not to imagine
the heat of your fingers
pressed against my lips,
or the weight of your thigh
across my lap.

Your smile,
crooked,
unravels the rhythm of my couplets.
Your eyes
cut the strings of my rhyme scheme,
and my beat poetry palpitates.

You stand up,
I stand up,
and you run your fingers
through your hair;
even as you cock your head
to the side and pretend
not to notice me,
the leaf stays put.

riding the influence

You live high to high
and crest to crestfallen,
falling
down the ditches
in between
popping seams
up your forearm,
four arms
outstretched,
blood rushing to your head:
Has it hit you yet?

Powder
then you pound her.
Power
knock the sound out her
party,
part ways,
part the waves,
make some waves,
make her shake
& tremble.
Tumble forward
toward her, for her,
explore her—
tip yourself in
and pretend
to afford her.

Buzz & bent over,
bend her over,
knock her sober,
lose all feeling,
search for meaning
buried
in her bosom;
she blossomed
beneath your tongue,
speak in tongues,
tongue her hard,
bend and break her,
penetrate her.

Drop your guard
and leave her scarred;
pull out, discard
and leave her, scarred.

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