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This is the Fall

when love's shoulders were buff
grey cliffs to hang from
on some cold, mist-shrouded day
and the rain
bored with longing's predictable face
sails a boat down the rivulets
formed in my cheeks.
when the scent of fermented wet leather
as I abide this bastard weather
floods me like a broken water main.
this is nostalgia. let us watch it arrive
the way our whiskey revisits through the vomit
burning our nostrils.
when love wore hideous green briefs
and still expected a blowjob behind the shiny brass bus
as if he were some self-appointed superhero.
and when every girl still blew out the knees
of her acid-wash jeans just to appease.
see his chest puffed out like fowl, hands on hips;
see his invisible cape flapping in the wind.
this is nineteen eighty-six in case you hadn't noticed.
when safe sex was taboo
and the token condom in a teenager's purse
was nothing but cool-girl insignia.
I earned my badge face-down in the chicken coop
with love's tender hand to hold me.
perhaps that's best left for confessional pews
or sad summaries of regret
spewed into blogs, but I'll admit
all those orphan-annies shoved sperm
high into their young vaginas.
though no small, drunken body was fruitful
at times I think they wished for it,
that clean husk of heart and sluggish vein of grief
carving demons out into the night--
seems no matter how far away I go
I still find them here, though I have no closet
large enough to hold them.
this is the fall. let us watch it depart
like the ghost of my love
who will not come out to say goodbye,
nor will I linger in case it changes its mind.

28 Oct 16

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your fall is completely entitled.  Only the buff fall?  For real... wtf are u thinking... Have u ever been outside a chair?  Can you not talk about yourself?
 — percocet