don't read this

I’m pretty good

at drinking beer,

picking songs,

and driving stick.

Knotting a tie

in several ways.

Matching meats

for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,

explain meanings of flowers,

fold napkins into roses,

drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled

at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,

find my pants in the dark,

semi-swagger walk,

bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,

stealthy nympho ninja,

while we’re both mid-gait,

in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,

don’t let me talk.

If you talk too,

there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.

A warning, my future ex,

because I’ve learned from bad decisions.

I’m good at sex,

not what comes next.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3231/2923992303_1a6da1a0e1.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3003/2894944587_7f2983e8f3.jpg

exes have marked

Where we go

the flat tops of an X.

Our lines split apart

from the center.

The dark knot of our crossing.

A blot of ink

thick, deep black.

The point our two lines

vanished.

We drew straight to the middle,

to each other,

from where we were

the flat bottoms of the X.

It was still a hill.

We climbed.

An arrowhead.

We sharpened.

We tipped.

We were shot somewhere far,

telescopic,

but near the end.

We didn’t know.

We didn’t see

past the top.

It was just the middle.

Where we would meet,

stay. Rest;

take a break from our climbings.

Who knows when they will go?

We viewed all the places we could go.

When we met:

face to face.

But below, around,

the countries all possible.

We turned away,

sat side by side.

Remarking the cities,

the roads carrying people,

the oceans and reservoirs,

the skies stained starry.

Memorials downhill

upon green stirring grass.

And in the air between

red heaven and black earth,

a longing streak, dreams of dawn.

desire to climb

need to roll away

We ended with our backs touching.

We leaned on each other.

Depended.

There always,

one behind the other.

Who forgets first?

What you look like face to face.

How my breath feels on your nose.

The end, we finally saw

below, in the calling countries,

around, in the sunburning horizon.

Who pushes first?

Off me.  Off you.

Away.

The top of our hill;

dulled arrowhead.

The middle: the end.

Climbing is another way to descend.

The beginning.

We started for the tops of the X.

To his own grass stirring.

Her own sky starring.

Exes

we made with our two lines.

The dark naught of our crossing.

The roads carrying people,

grids of their intersectings.

Atop my flattened line

I see life below.

My land marked with Exes;

losing game of tic-tac-toe .

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/195/454556806_a40fef726c.jpg