Leveled.
My heart fell back against my spine, its blood running with the wolves of my regret.
It started to rain. I walked up Hawthorne with no jacket. It was getting windy and frozen out there. I looked up. The clouds were moving in. I watched the sky bleed its grey blood. The clouds were grinning. They had no tolerance for life. They simply bled where they told themselves to. I reached up and felt my hair and my face, the lines about the sockets. My bones were back there, blocks away in her store and I was powerless, stuck in Portland with no coat, no money, no love. A horn honked and I jumped in.
Ode to L.A.
L.A. trip, as I flip from the grip of the dark sky to the shine, warmth divine feel, drinking a pale ale with my meal, on a deck by the beach is for real. Reach to the teal sky as I stretch out my arms high, relaxed as I sigh and think about the life, I live away from L.A. My mainstay, would never trade it ok? But I will say, Californ-I-A is cool for this one winter day.
Bleeding sweat.
The ocean turned over in beats and bass, and the sand moved in the roll of a tongue beneath her stomach and hips, and the rest of the beach gazed at her there while her headphones blasted Modern English and other post punk ’80s bubblegum resurrections. The smell of Coppertone and Pacific had married above her body and pinned my vision on the horizon behind the top of her perfection. I ran my middle finger down her knuckle and she smiled beneath a shroud of wild hair with sweat at the roots.
Back at the house we made it halfway up the stairs before my tongue was up her ass and she was grabbing my hair. Her palms leaned forward and pressed into the carpet while I held her legs off the ground, the grip of my hands on her hips, and I watched her body bounce off our sex while she bucked and came, her hair in her face, her perfections hard at their tips. I arched my back and shot into her and we were frozen there like statues bleeding sweat, my love for her a poem I could never write.
