If carrots


are syllables

and carrots


are fingers


I will stutter sweet nothings

across your hands

and they will linger




across the broad-side

of the rock of your back




on your dusty lane neck

my s-s-s-s-s-syllables




will cascade

Niagara meets
a linguistic crag

the sound of my kisses

has an infectious lag




they twiddle and drag

it is the sound of the cars


as they pass by

the bass and earthen sigh

that whistles

repeatedly through the high

cliffs of tooth and lip




if every syllable I slip

would be a kiss

and every consonant I block

would start to talk

then I'd tell you a story




of you and me

biking on the pot holes

of night-time Chicago




and we would stutter
along the loop

past the park

you and I



in the dark

the air and the night and some dog

that might bark

and we

we would shake from our wheels

on the slats between blocks

your voice with giggles and my voice with stops

and the jazz of our bodies

in horizontal motion

might tempt the notion

that all our lives

we shrug

we ripple like slug

we lie awake quivering

like the lip

of the dysfluent deliverer

of a sentence


on unexpected the presence

of neon shimmer

upon the pallet of


a rain swept avenue





and me and you and me and you

we could dash between the shadows of the city

and the stars might look pretty

as the vibration

of an evening


comes rolling down the cheek

and the stasis

is the only thing

that makes us feel like freaks




and the silence always leaks

and the sky is always gusty

and smoothness stares at disorder

with a look thats kind of lusty


and in the end its you and I


arms spread out upon the road

and all could speak or all could moan

and we would reply in half-a-stammer

in a voice thats all our own