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

Remotely I keep hidden
thoughts of dew on roses
and chocolate hearts,
of love in the forms
of passionate-deep
shades of red and blue.
Our eyes blinking out
echoes, tiny plinks from an
aging upright piano,
through a barely open
window, sending muted
notes of Horowitz
upon the drabs of a
bellowing, misty wind.
Shouldn’t souls
find one another,
know one another,
like how black knows darkness?
Drifting about quietly
like clouds across
the open skies of summer.
Kissing our shoulders
together until distance
is no distance at all but
spaces in between our
breathless midnight words.

Untitled I - BM

Bound, assembled,
The slender spine, the feel,
The off-white pages against
The tips of my thumbs.

I forget everything
Except what exists
In my hands.
Anything beyond
Is just background,
Peppered static.

Held tightly against my chest-
Moving to my heartbeat-
Filling my nostrils with
An ethereal perfume.

The novel is a woman.

The want of nothing
But to touch,
To read every word
On every page
Hoping never
To reach the end.

To sleep beside-
To dream within-
To escape for a moment
Without ever leaving the room.

The Novel Is A Woman - BM

There are little ribbons of
Dead names
At the foot of the bed.

As my feet hit the floor,
They lift off,
Like dust particles through rays of light.

I pick one up.
Curled and wilting,
Yellowed like an old man’s tooth.

The name read louder
Than a war alarm.

It whispered danger,
The parchment sending
heat through my fingers.

She was always fire.
Wild and free, sucking
All the air there was left.

She Was Always Fire - BM

..Are your poems about me?”

She was three highballs in
On a dripping Saturday night.
The windows curving the wet wind,
Directing it to her breathless skin.

Shivering just enough to
Make her look alive.
Her almond eyes blinking with
Lashes tapping like bird wings.

She already knew the answer.
I smiled and grabbed a Sharpie.
Lifting her dress up and off
Her thin body, she shivered again.

Upon her silky smooth stomach
I wrote, “you are every poem.”
I kissed the punctuation, punctuating
The moment with my lips.

A Moment Named Desire - BM