A life lived
hammocked along her
subtle bouts of laughter,
the precious precursor to
the smell of dawning skin—

Truncated sounds of
small battles for air-
constricting lungs-
thin lips burning red as
biting mixes with
hair tousling,
creating a choppy view
though tiny stalactites
of ombre strands—

I’ve compared her breath
to chapters of older books-
fields of
petal-packed mum and
scarlet poppy
explode from her chest
once I touch her—

there is no word
that mimics the softness
of a woman’s mouth
when she loves you.

Untitled III - BM

brittybum asked:

What's your biggest dream? How many times a day do you think about being somewhere else? Why aren't you doing whatever it is you wish you were doing more of?

These are very good questions, thank you.

I have a lot of dreams, most outrageous and some possible. I do not harp on these kinds of things though because I let myself down if I do. I don’t really have dreams, but more like milestones. I wanted to produce a single and have it for sale on iTunes, and I checked that off. I wanted to be published, and most recently (in the Axe Factory Magazine) I have been able to do so. I want to be able to take care of someone, have a house with a yard with a dog and a fire pit next to a mountain sitting, looking out at my garden with a coffee and book in hand. These are the things I want.

I don’t want to be any where else but now. It sounds silly, but it’s true. I do wish that my girl and I could live in the wilderness and off the land. I go there in my mind a lot.

Oh geez, I wish I was writing more. I was I was traveling more. I wish I was experiencing more. I’ve picked a career that requires a lot of man hours. But I try my best to squeeze in what I can, and that’s all you can do.

I am happy in my own skin, where I am, and where I am to go from here. If I don’t fulfill my dreams/milestones, that’s okay. To live a good wholesome life, without killing anyone, and being able to share that life with someone else, and thusly completing each other’s lives… that’s the dream right there.

Death, Death.

I fucking see you, man.

Hiding behind the blinds
And peaking with your
Hollowed out eyes
And your wretched stench.

You go through my fridge
While I’m working,
Downing my milk which
Leaks out your nonexistent body
Like water from a drenched sponge.

You go through my closet
And wear out my button downs;
Finding my combs you
Drag them across where
Hair would be if, you know,
You had fucking hair.

Death, Death.

You’ve been waiting so long.

As an infant I’d cry out
And with a wisp in front
Of your dark robe you’d motion
With phantom “fingers” over your “mouth”
As if telling me to be quiet.

You’d walk me to school
Without my permission
And with a hiss you’d always say,
“Today is the day,”
With what appeared to be
A grin.

Death, Death.

Cut it out, now.

You’re nothing but a
goddamned tease.

Death’s A Bitch - BM

Sometimes I can’t help but treat her
feet like I am touching the shores of
America for the first time.

Like granules of sand,
light brown and softly brittle,
they fall through my hands;
Against my lips they are
so foreign and new.

Her body is one I’ve seen
from miles away but
could never reach.

There are stories about her.

They say once she is found
you could never leave her.

I’d place a flag between her teeth.
I would walk through
her forests and skies forever.

I would drown if it would mean
I could float, lifelessly,
right back to her.

I May Not Be The First, But God Help Me If I’m Not The Last - BM

I’ve got a girl that makes me pray to God while she pulls the belt from my waist and sinks her teeth into its worn leather-

I’ve got a girl that follows my spine with her bottom lip, whispering to it like a quiet snake charmer-

I’ve got a girl who sleeps in only to dream about the things she wants to do to me once I come home-

I’ve got a girl with a duffle bag filled with nicknames that would make the toughest men blush and wilt-

I’ve got a girl who simultaneously turns me on while making me rethink why life exists outside of the bedroom.

I’ve Got A Girl - BM

The swirls in my sheets
After we’ve made love
Mimic the hurricane of sound
When the neighbors slam windows,
Clasping shut to silence us.

I’ve written my favorite things
In the pores of your skin
And kissed them into your mouth,
As you’re painting the air with such
Breathless and truncated words.

Every moment I take to wishing;
Hoping that I can hold you
And make your insides smile again,
That I can spark your eyes until
You see the true colors of the world.

Love After Loneliness - BM

With eyes that breach the air,

departing across the runway curves

of a naked back, lifting off and

out through the open window

and onto the thin, cobbled street,

speckled with crowds scuffling,

walking straight while looking down.

Continuing now with a spiralling,

panning back up the brick blocks of

an 18th-century maison off Rue Royale,

snaking in between the rods of

black cast iron balconies,

ice clinking like a chilled swordfight,

Sazerac swirling and dripping off tongues.

With ears that perk to the booming

of drums and black shoes tap-

marching, the squeal of trumpets,

lagniappe spirituals belting from

the lips of Creole youngsters down Rampart;

the wind is loud and soaked carrying

glee-filled shouting and the precursors

to a drunken day melting into drunken night.

But for now, her breathing brings her closer

and then away, bellowing sweet, slim nostrils

flaring, reaching to steal the scent of

deep chicory and powdered pasteries where

Cafe du Monde ushers in wave after wave,

filling their bodies with that centuries-old need,

spitting them out into the mule-dipped Square.

And the cathedral bell spills into the morning,

abruptly snipping the conclusion of her dreams;

she livens up the sheets with limbs stirring

and as I watch the Mississippi brew and swirl

inside the brown-green bayou of her eyes,
her voodoo charming my Cajun soul, flooding
me, shuttering my levee heart without ceasing.

We Were Once A Hurricane - BM

With a stiffened arm,
I topple all of my poetry,
books, and whisky bottles
all at once into a wrinkled duffle.

I twist my knuckles into
the mirror, taking shards out
to rearrange my features, to
become another version of me.

The money is out of the bank
but everything else will remain
as it was, candles still on shelves,
change still on the counter.

I’ve expired myself.
Given a piece to all who wanted it,
auctioning off my best parts.
(She still has my eyes.)

I’m looking to disappear.
Harness my soul in another temple.
To completely engulf myself in flame
and come out of the ashes sparkling.

There is nothing here for us
to mark the end of the seasons
so let my shedding be
the universe’s cue to start anew.

Untitled II - BM