Saturday, April 11, 2009

The Point

The word not available to the mouth
is the word you need, the one you want
to crutch beneath your armpits 
and lean into, sucking a purple little hickey
from it's neck and driving its dirty adolescent 
imagination off a cliff. Way down in the valley,
crashed and mushed in the pines, my steady
wet dreams of love, of understanding, of
communication seem to be deep
within this pretty girls jeans. My fingers
keep crawling in that direction, inching
always with a simple destination. We all
have been there before and we are always
coming back with the same dumb flowers.