Love Poem

On Having Heard “Royals” by Lorde

Poem for Lorde (Ella)

The dance floor between us, call it
three oceans and half a world,
would be a pleasure
to cross,
for lifetimes,
through reincarnation,
I would be a starving mouth,
an easy mark,
a holy strong man,
a blank expression,
a taxi driver in the future
and a carriage in the past,
just to have a few moments,
a walk on sand,
and a dance,
with your voice,
real class,

I think I want tonight to be alone,
so we can dance a little weirder,
and I think maybe the
sun sets in some sort of
strange tribute,
to that chance.

That off chance,
we could dance.



I want my flesh to be torn off
in a million dreams,
all of them ending
in your rescue.

I want to slowly breath
the ocean in and empty it
at your feet.

I will write all of your
hidden and unknown names
on our city scape.

I will use chalk
because it was one of our
guiding, falling-star-motifs.

Oh yes dearest,
I made it to the East
After everything, it was all you
hoped for in Hilroy,
spiral-red ink dream journal.

The world ate you up
with the rest of that day’s appetizers;

A shoeless joe soul,
another of Egyptian origin.
And someone who never really
got it together,

Never danced freely,
never got out of town.

“Epic Fantasy, Schmepick Scantasy”

Epic Fantasy Schmepick Scantasy,

give me the summer of our love,
and I will forever me oval faced,
pancake iris’d, enveloped by the arrows
and pointed spears and deadly artefacts
of your bad, bad love. I can get back to it,

but as of yet I am always confined
to the scrying scope of a neighborhood crow
who took up territory a block over,
by the used car lot and corner store,
that same hot, hot year. Once in awhile

I can see a glimmer of your head from
the strict hedges, unmistakable curls
no less telling than the very fingerprints
on your charcoal stained fingers. Once I heard
us make love, me and my cackling scrawny

soul’d salut, all bark and very little, limpid bite.
You, turning out the kids from the back porch.
Walking out into the summer when all
the lady bugs were mating, like jazz-dust
shook from the blanket of the night, trailing
around your vixen, freckle crescent smile.


Your orange zest and patchouli and acrylic paint.

Caw. Caw.

The sound of your bangles smashed against
the august humidity of midday.


And then I’m gone again over the downtown core,
past the burger stand and the grocery store and the
tacky Chinese restaurant awning, where some angry
Chef tries to beat me to death for shitting on his clean,
recently de-shit-if-ied walkway, so I caw again and swoop.

You can keep your epic fantasy series.
I’m making my own.