the land of enchantment
i would say my first love is the tall, white, yuccas in my father’s childhood home

lavender farms and chain smoked american spirits are what my clothes smell like

my mouth tastes like bitten tongues and my first girlfriend’s fingers

melted skies and dripped candle wax on my collarbone

but again, the tall, white yuccas remained

like strong adobe villages,


to live and die in new mexico is the way

lavender farms meet wildfires meet arguments over which bodega is the best west of the tracks

push my hair behind my ears

kiss me one last time, before sunrise hits and things get too sticky


one last fatalistic conversation
we’re both too big for our bodies


mescaline and amphetamine
 
brought to you by the American Dream, coming into focus
when my parents find me, at least they’ll have another skull to hang on the living room mantle
fertilizer for the garden

the yuccas remain

parce que c’est lui
let's pretend that our bodies are zodiacs, and we can chalk up any bump in the road to fate

i, an aries, unapologetically fearless with hands that still shake

you, a gemini, one with two heads fighting over who should be fed first

sometimes i hear that white noise echo in the woods, and it reminds me of every time you held onto the last letter in my name like it was your favorite shirt collar

i liked it when i could rest my head on your chest, and feel your ribs expand and contract with the serenity of a thousand water lilies

this is what love feels like, and this is what nervous pride tastes like

espadrilles on pavement and bare feet on sand, because this is summer, and every kiss further pushes my head under
every day at the beach i see your voice differently,

i like blue the best

the color you wear while molding me like clay

the only words i can manage out are labored italian
 
        per sempre, oliver

forever, to our bike rides, and love notes passed under doors like we have time to play games

apricot juice mixes with the sweat on your lips
       
          peachy

i want to be your hephaestion, the patroclus to your achilles

i'll be your martyr if you just give me the blade

what else can i offer?

dirty fingernails
he looks up mulatto in the dictionary and learns why
the others call him unclean, green eyes and garden
sheds where he retreats

scraped knees, wounded psyche because he’s been
told his face is the key to a heart that’s had its locks
slightly

changed, he can’t see any good to come from that
word, songbirds chirp but they’re all canaries 

drowned hopes and tidal waves that tie ropes into
nooses, excuses, excuses, is all he can come up with

“My hands are bound and my strength isn’t boundless,”
ruled by a crownless king whose throne is built on my
back, cul de sac boys rule the kingdom from afar while
the sea creeps in with a vengeance

destroy the leevees, leave the town in anguish and
pretend your heart is heavy, and sorrowful, tomorrow
will bring flowers for you and none for the vanquished

it’ll take an act of god to break this apart (ode to frank ocean)
                                      I.
your hands tickle ivories just like they once did me

never had a drop top so the sunroof will do

chasing after you

five two but you seem really tall right now,

real
endless right now, so we put on that frank

show me the way you move

like sunrise stings, and your voice brought darkness to this calm

like the waves crash in
  birds still sing with you

harmonies transcending all the things you do

                                        II.
early may but it felt july

we hit that heat wave, we’re alone

guess it’s a little late to even ask the time

pour a little salt in those eyes

sixteen but it felt alive

sixteen but maybe that’s a little young anyway

little too young to memorize silhouettes

but fuck it, it’s finally july

broken butterfly wings and deviated septums

cause even stevie couldn’t make these dreams last

but i’ll find the time

love is stronger than pride
i have love tattooed on my ribcage to remind me where
i
     latched
                    on
like ivy on dead bark
lost in bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils
giving tighter hugs to bodies who can’t recognize me
all of my friends are drug addicts
existing somewhere between backyard porches
and glass table aspirations
existing in my poems as romantic figures
shadows
i pray i attend no premature funerals
as i swallow another xanax to help ease the reception
he’s driving 90 on the highway, perc 30s in his palm, and all that’s left in his head are blurred lines and crossed wires
intimacy found in little crevices, marking our bodies with traffic paint
until the veil of adolescence retreats