Pillow Talk

In need of a crease, a sliver of moonlight like sprinkled magic

Upon the dampened pillow like eraser-head dust

Dehumidifying this New Orleans cotton fabric

Wrestling dreams and court rooms of crazy-heart trials

Gavel and bailiffs called out handcuffs of manliness

Scorched Earth tumbleweed romantics flopping through whiskey bottle towns

Penned up in glass

Rolling cuddling with jagged rock-busted viscera 

Split like a spaghetti of rat tails squirming out the aperture

Smeared and red with pin-black wormlike wishful thinking

That today the fruit was not rancid

The belly not flush with a cereal of maggots

Gorging on the birdseed of wanting, of hope, of the germ

Of allowing possibility to seep like a drop of rain through the moon roof

Into the vehicle passing on an interstate past midnight

So cautious about keeping the ceiling tight

God out, old conversations, the shouting matches to empty air

The why or the not strong enough for this, the Beatles were right speech

The third-world country approach of what poverty is

The thresholds and the muddy ankles and the soil of the lotus

The regurgitated mother-bird vomit nutrition for a pharmaceutical diet

The Instagram feeds of banquet dancehalls and selfie groupies

The empire of dirt playgrounds, razorblades and firearm debates

Of what I will not keep in my house and why

Twilight into midnight into dawn and San Francisco to New Orleans

North Carolina to Boston flashing Lake Pontchartrain

Bodies in airplanes and this dust wiping my face to the pillow

White out blank, no nose, no mouth, no ears, no eyes, no visage

Been a mirage for years tumbling over each other like limbs in a theater fire

Film bubbling and doorways met with that awful jarring type of sunlight

Afraid if it is better just to give into the smoke of the morning

Feeling the weight of this treasure chest what chin to sternum has to offer

When raising eyes level peering onto the table of another

In Anjali mudra conversation