was strange. The roads really didn’t make sense
wending their way around Lake Houston. I

got stuck, my big black Mercedes backed
into a ditch, I had to let it go

further-in in order to get traction,
tires spinning on the soft wet grasses

finally let me go, forward again
down a black incomprehensible street

like the face of this beaten woman
her blue eyes lusting for everything

that I might have given her, her life.

(copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved)

…audio of the author reading KingWood…


I sit here sipping coffee night’s bitterness
being without you kindles with it is a kind
of muskiness I open my lips to your absence
mouth on mine touching your milk-salted breasts
nipples against my nose holding your hips
in my obscene hands

nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing

copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved

The Boat of Millions of Years

Tuesday, I’m feeling glum somewhere while out
in public, larking across Rice Boulevard. Icy

shaved rain cones the wet rag of my head.
Ducking crapping pigeons huddled under eves,

my dripping wet face a blotched Fuji apple
flung into Half Price Books’s Arctic AC

to meet no one but flip leaves of dead trees.
You stand tip-toed toward your belly, legs spread

wide as you kneel down toward a bookcase.
I make you move, slightly, and we are soon

gazing over coffee. Your hand recovers mine.
I squeeze it hard. We smile. You shudder and suggest

we hang at your upstairs loft at the Domain
a few blocks over and around a corner

bending over, spread open the bright pink boat
of yourself, head sideways and down on silk pillows

the room’s ribbed sails of long white curtains flap, pop
open, then stiffen full-bellied in the billowing wind.

copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved