mighty samson

it was at that point, words, like jungle air, choked with mossy inhalations, leaving a gravid residue to ingest.

- I drip with sweat; trembling shakes my body.

He would have been the emperor of the gods, His voice would catapult the essence of particles back into an unformed preexistence. His strength would intimidate fear, his words would be commoving and manhandle the chattering cackles burrowed in the depths of our being. his skin the browns of autumn, -his eyes callow yet driven, *his hair cloaked in onyx, usurping his mother’s tattered sepia shade. He would have been

the breeze met with the snapped photograph in his fingertips, parse and feeble. the expired canister of baby food (peaches) remained open and half-eaten. spread along his desk *calendar <circled date October 7,> *johnson & johnson baby wipes, *the scattered pages of “things to do.” escaping smoke from the marble ashtray clung to his hair, his sterile nostril wisps unaffected. used nude bodies, exposed for the first time.

her pallid red headed palaver pendulant and stiff:

“I had to tell you” -
“it’s better you find out now” –
“the truth” -
“because you; I ” -
“puts the heart in my chest on wings” -

sifting blue thoughts break beyond his black tousled hair, now sprout crimson, like blood hitting the atmosphere:

*“cut the Sappho crap” – *”it’s her choice” – *”I should be with her right now”
*”you back stabbing, cold hearted bitch, it was never about you! me! us!”
*”He was supposed to be great”

the unused latex, mint condition, unopened, ledged on the nightstand. the gravity eventually introduces it to the floor.