Monsoon

Wet, you.

Oppressive, you.
Humid, you.

The smell,

…you.

BFM

Giddy-up-pony

I like when her hands 

slip into 

the small of my back

like a giddy-up-pony

at the county fair.

B.F.M.

Tipping Dominos

Losing morning after morning,

hermetically sealed inside a

windowed room 

crowded 

with ten foot wooden ladders

he rants his Poet-ness

atop a 

plastic footstool.

B.F.M.