Joseph M. Gerace

>sour, profitless thingscat hair, drifting clumps of dogwhen my lover wakes soft and unwashed she tosses my cover to the floor she partitions, in other words. brushes her teeth, applies a maskwashes her face then anoints the maplike a slippery film, guaranteeing breathwhen miles from the unmade mess shestrikes a flint and sparks the slick veneer pain makes her proud.…

>yr wide eyes would know beyond this here doorframeif yr head was yr only; yesterday the sky is clear and blueeach cloud throws blocks; blocking, each cloud spins across a definite line, parallel yet flagging above the horizonlike a thread, loosed from the loose hem hanging off the shoulder of an expensive navy jacket,that you’ll never…

>At the top of the stairAs sure as the outreached handIs collared and wetCold to the freckle on his wristHe’s sure Laughter is half down the stairAnd that apparition fingering the doorbellWould serve cause better completely ignored.

>i know or do not know youbeside the heft of your legs& knit-black stockings; i do notneed nor save need in the glut,the choking overabundance(: startsthe pulse feather, quick scrapeover the hall of tongue; coughrich with purpose, the body, harmonya wallet full between my legs; coughagain a selfish exhaling as ifpeering through a mirror through…

>I can only think about the coldnessOf the green water, how the initialShock makes the skin alive with purposeHow I demand to be alive.

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> I Sat up on the plush, pillowed chair Crossed milky legs, flattened hair,             and feels it bright to giggle and             arch her slender bow. II I stop despite, to belly on reflection Peering up from the gleam eye of perfection             blood impress & blood impressing, blood           …

>I would like to murder some easy manLive the acrimonious whole of Northwestern European loreThe bits full of colour and flags preceeding acronymsI would demand you come along and hold my hand butOf course, understand should you have some other plan.

>Early one morningOn an early morning hikeHe pressed a prettiless plantBetween pages in a blank book Late the next nightOn an emergency late-night flightHe thought down on his darlingsGetting on in age, he couldn’t recall Had the weed the sore right ankle?Or little Geppetto’s book? He rememberedOne tubercular grunt beneath his favorite quiltThough the details…

>A particularly terrible evening to find oneself a slaveTo soaked wool socks, a full pink cap topped with a firm buttonNothing like a cherry. She doesn’t care much for this parking lotShe doesn’t care about description in the negative, women driversNor does she mind the extra attention, the broken yellow boxesThis is what life’s become, even…