I was going to write a letter to you,
but I'm far too inebriated
to even begin to be able to.

Can I come spend some
time with you; are you not so busy
to pay me mind for a minute or two?

I sit here, removed
(lying to myself, loudly filling the room)
from all aspects Human.

There is a dry humor
which I'm inclined to adopt--
to dine upon, to occupy--

but the dryness of this wine
has me thinking of you:
horrorshow: rained-out visions

and the like protrude
from my sulfite-demeanor; the
California in me-- fermented

and bastardized little gob of fruits--
has a thing (or two)
to say: if indeed you choose

to delay these proceedings, these
gay-happy meetings of cerebral mishaps
and neurons firing in the wrong direction;

if indeed we elect to err from truth,
to proceed with such misguided cautions
and caustic fits of normality, banality--

then let's forget we've a single,
jeweled thing between us.
Let's forget the night you propositioned;

let's forget my immediate denial,
and the regret that followed a moment after.
Forget the four drops in an Ocean

of Time and searing Salt
(like electric glass making love to my wounds)
which have brought our spinning frames

no closer.  Forget it all; wobble
on your axis, and perhaps we will
fall into one another, some day;

I'd love you,
I'd love you,
I'd love you.