A shiver of lightning buckles the sidewalk.
Love cracks my sternum open

A man unzipping his fly is vulnerable to attack.
Then the zipper got stuck.
An angel flies in the window to unstick it.

This is a different sort of space race.
To the stars through adversity!
A right hook to the jaw, and the planet sees stars!

I don’t read.
I read Rilke and bleed.

I wake each morning
To the sound of awful coughing   
Coming from the street

I move my body meat smell next to yours,
Your spice of Zanzibar. Mine rains, yours pours—
Sex tropics as a way to not be dead.

Plop the live lobster into boiling water and let it scream.
You both turn red. 
Of course you have to eat it dead. 

A man walks briskly away from his body
And from feeling slightly sick on a blazingly fall day.
The sky is fresh perfection, without a cloud of illness.

I walk on water in my poems, using the lily pads
Of the sidewalk homeless as stepping-stones.

Some people say sex is like riding a rainbow.
Maybe theirs is.
I say I fall on a grenade each time.