Too Drunk To Down Curb (for Zach)

I was turnt, barging into railings toe stubbed and thirsty. We saw this big bird stride and waddle, mallard red cloak, black tights goose down slick, golden buckle on her ostrich hips.

Behind her a brown fox. Pockmarked cheeks and fine black hair shimmering in grease, stumbling around the birds tail feathers in a drunken figure eight.

Crouched over hand cut spuds drizzled in chipotle ola listening to Zach discuss the merits of truffle sauce and white fish batter I said.

"Tell me your name"

"Lark" she replied

I half cocked my smile and pointed at the fox.

She slow spun her eyes and spat introductions. Knots twisted my diaphragm as he reached out grasping; I mirrored his moves. I wanted to pull him in,inhale his clothes and brush his chin with my finger tips.

We high fived instead.

The beautiful creatures forgot us and stalked on toward the doe legged monsters in referee stripes spilling out of our towns most arsenic heavy watering hole.

We sat up stream and watched the refuse pour, filled up on meat, too drunk to down curb.

Always a Beacon (for Amy)

Jogging in place

naked

trying to regain the feeling in my earlobes, my cock, my nipples.

A snowflake pushed on a stainless steel breeze flutters towards my iris.

I plant my feet to watch it flux in and out of focus

ignoring the push mower shutter

winding up in my diaphragm.

The snowflake was a tiring beauty

Terribly similar

Cold.

Always a beacon of cold.

My joints quake like mantle

and spread  like divergent plates,

chemical heat splitting their natural boundaries like magma whipped and frothing

The thin cloud from my breath appears again.

Always a beacon of life

I feel  an icy burn like my body forgot it's senses. I squint, expecting to taste the black sky.

Running  in place tiered, naked,  trying to regain the warmth in my arms, my lungs, my heart.

A flurry, pushed on a gust like an ice hook, rushes towards my panting tongue.

Always cold

Always a beacon of warmth.