BJ Love

 

 

from A Man Called BJ Love

 

I see only one problem here, which means
this is no different than Independence Day; what
we define as war crime often depends on which
side of the flying saucer we find ourselves.
I am taking up tons of space, I am a bad mother
shipper, I am holding my hands to your throat
and waiting for my own words to come dripping
out. I hear dogs barking through even the largest
fires and gain a new hope for life. Fire, of course
is always a metaphor, always, of course, the punch
that welcomes us to earf. There are so many colors
to be in love with! Let us write them all letters and
send them all cakes filled with files and promise
them we will be waiting when they finally bust out
of prism. The real sky is a deep lilac and our clouds
are growing increasingly important. This is life in
the lower atmospheres, and one can only hope
that our YouTubes are capable of capturing such
selective scattering. I'm not looking for a perfect
sky just one that makes my muscles look big
when I smoke cigars and hug babies, when I
look to you for high-fives, one that finally feels
as big and as tangerine as we know we deserve.

 

 

 

from A Man Called BJ Love

 

That we have found the sky
interesting is merely a testament
to our literacy of the clouds
like Keats I am now standing in tears
amongst corn that is woefully alien.
El maíz pone la música en sus
propios oídos is a line I typed
into Google translator so this poem
would be considered more difficult.
O, my darkling, I am way drunk
and begging you to fill your beakers
with anything but this too warm South
it's stupid flowers creeping over my feet
it's index of unbearable heat teaching us
the importance of real feel, of real
flora, of humidity's real effects
on my love's curly hair. We can
become so twisted up in unimportant
things, we can be lead readily into any
spiral. But a little fizz has the ability to focus
our attention hard.  O, I am about to
start down a path that will prove my love
that will throw some dust into the air
in lieu of every breakable beaker.
I have seen movies about this
and inevitably, what starts with a big
bang, will end with us holding hands
with the perfect combination of atoms.

 

 

 

from A Man Called BJ Love

 

I am sorry I am so sweaty. I am sorry I am so called BJ Love.
I am a man trying to figure out a good position for a box fan
because I am a fan of your comfort. I am looking at branches
and imagining my ideal tree. I am counting syllables like a
conquest. I am multisyllabic in my conquests. I am white
with humidity. I am squeezing my light tightly around your
shadow. I am discovering direct routes to shade. I am throwing
so much shade. I am marking my own utility with a hundred
little yellow flags. I can't even imagine the earth that makes this
landscape. I am hoping from on high that you will recognize me
buried here beneath this beard. I am wishful thinking. I am making
believe. I am caught in the act of pre-tending your garden. I am
catching  light from your million little hairs and realizing how
miraculous your legs can be. Look at me, I have made myself a man.
A man so fucking DIY, the Home Depot keeps my heart measurements
on file and emails me discounts unique to my purchase profile.
This is affection in a digital age. This is a picture of me touching
the bare belly of the girl laying next to me. That we sweat is proof
that these human bodies, ridiculous  as they are, know how to
ready themselves for a breeze. Know how to open and be kissed
by every sun, even the ones who grew up to be men called BJ Love.