Smearing

Our pyroclastic remains litter our once wannabe house. 

The first great dream is always a bruising lie, leaving one feeling cornered. 

Dipping our index and middle fingers into liniment jars, 
smearing balm like war paint, with an ash chaser.

We ready for something smaller, a one bedroom apartment, apart. 

BFM

Near-Sighted

My eyes see you 

inches from me

my heart feels

you’re

a marathon away.

B.F.M.

Cistern

Cut glass distorts your eyes and my seeing. We continue on, as if the cistern hadn't been rotated and filled with ice. We practiced — okay and fine; two amateur ping pong players in a polite warmup.

B.F.M.

The Fair

Over and over we rode the the Tunnel of Love, Tilt a Whirl, The Flying Dutchman.

Ate pussy and cock like pink and blue cotton candy, pretending it was nourishment. 

Looked into each other's eyes until they turned drab-empty. Smiled, like we were still having the time of our life.

B.F.M.

Shards

After I kissed you good-bye,

I made my ritual strong coffee, 

watched the sun crest the ridge,

watched her define clear cut 

but empty shadows.

Shattered ceramic shards

cut at my feet.

I cried over each fragment:

the handle’s curve in twos,

the bottom’s foundation in fours,

the walls that held in eights.

Bloodied, I did what I could, 

I got up did 
laundry, sorting, hurting.

B.F.M.

Burned Once

How will go for me 

when

stove top

gas burners 
are 

flaming high

and grease 
is 
all that I am?

B.F.M.

Betrayal

Though you say
the morning cock crowed
I was miles away.

B.F.M.

Jealousy

Brown goo, 
sepia seeping 
under currents
squeezed between
teeth.

B.F.M

Trail Map Lament

I found 
an old trail map
of yours.

The one with polkadots
and trails highlighted
in bright star pink.

Yet no matter how closely
I followed it, 

it

never 
led me 
back to you.

B.F.M.