|I am called Episode 12 now.
The scars on my torso are intercoms.
When we first make love I refuse to remove my shirt.
Episode 11 is still crashing around inside you.
I come on at 11am & again at 8pm.
After lovemaking on invisible terms
I sing the last part of what you say.
|We park on Friday night at the strip of ocean
that is unmonitored.
She listens for friends on the dead city radio.
Her friends waiting upside down from fire escapes
The secret we don’t know is a no-show & we’re too big
our own galaxy for the voices she does pick-up.
Her list: 1. He would paint with his empathy, tell me
The storm she says conquers our airwaves.
Do we choose to laugh at the unformed sky along the water?
Now she wants to take off her jeans
How will you tune in your voices?
Then she tunes into me saying field of blood
of non-stop gazes into the details. The details
3. She would pick up the doll from the saguaro.
pull up a white shirt
The underwear is too hard to catch.
The lifeguard tower is our spot to inferno our senses—
this lovemaking is staged
I have none. I watch lightning because holy lights
5. The insomniac I drove the mesa with at night—
But is she only this list? Does her skin,
She’s putting this nervous system around my neck.
Why are her lips becoming difficult to kiss?
These dead shouldn’t have let her shake them into me—