bedfellows magazine
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Halcyon
no longer strange to be wrapped through lives 
of those I’m loving threading
into Bedstuy through boys kissing for indy film
O cartoon skateboarder smelling of 40 
O raphaelite asses and deco abs
the bridge a joke about bridges
pink and complicated

In the Hassidic neighborhood’s 
specific category of quiet
walking to Chana’s
I am suddenly in love. 
Who isn’t. Lucky me. 
I wasn’t romanticizing it
                                        until
                                        I was.

Chana says Puppy Puddle 
we lay our heads on each other 
she says come, cubs
we read her plays

My good friends, I say not knowing 
what that word means except I am 
lost in that satisfying combination of sounds 
I’m hanging around them.

Anyway, we’re all here, 
dancing in the living room 
somehow kissing then fucking.
I hold someone’s hair
while she gets fucked
I fuck him while he fucks her she 
fucks him while he fucks me

The way this falls into words 
glancingly, honey-soaked 
like a crumb of Challa 
after breakfast 
crystalized and dissolving   

We’re giggling too late and too early 
in the shared bathroom
at the theater living space 
shaving a soft mohawk

In Philly B’s kisses snap 
like her eyes when she comes 
up dripping, teeth and grin,
her small creature 
folded brings me hunting
into seams for flowers and salts.

E makes breakfast in his dimples
we walk hand in hand in hand through 
Rittenhouse feeling supernatural.

I tell-all to D’s mona lisa 
smile on old tracks over the city 
his body taut with contained amusement 
+ lighting up from within like a smile 
+ fucks beautiful + playful + sensitive 
+ shaking + soft wet mouth sounds 
thinking fingers a low hum.

I decide to let the world call me back
It gives me a safe word I don’t use
I listen to the sounds through one 
earbud over coffee, on the train, before we 
                                                                      go back
                                                                      to bed.

Opening an argument is like surgery, it leaves a scar. But 
still I’m almost intolerably happy wandering in a skin so worn in
that sex seems like the wrong word for something we just forget
                                                                                   not to do

unshowered, with a strange allergic rash 
still getting drinks for free for once 
the universe just won’t quit and
poetry is just what happens 
keeps happening

a sound wall pushes words out
what inhabits me like music the bass 
                                                          a tide 
                                                          of good pain.

You smell like sea, I say to B
all asynchronic, she comes
                                  up wet 
                                  all teeth.

the room roped into a ring a thing
that gels and wobbles, melts + rolls 
                                                            shines,
                                                            repeats.
strung splayed
wires bared
tuned tight 
and popping
run a tongue 
into all the salts 

some old aloneness 
stretches the landscape
around a little lighthouse 
a radio receiver

I like her lyric spasm, the way I
don’t think about it being good 
or not because it speaks itself 
into my body and echoes out
through a voice I didn’t know
I could have.

Look at me, 
handling all this 
beauty.
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