five-syllable sonnets I - XXV | XXVI - L | LI - LXXV | LXXVI - C i figure, if i write enough, i'll make one perfect phrase.
I consequently i rested on the ground, face against the grass, waiting for you to get here. keep me sane. take my bags. suffo- cate me with sex. find my bones and startle them. make them jump to attention.            instead. i. waited. here. for. nothing. except the sunset and the grass.	II shirts are pouring out of my guitar case. i keep them here. i try to keep them from wrinkling, but they are resistant to my charms. they love to find a way to make me look homeless. one day i will surprise them. they will sit there, unknowing, when i take them to the laun- dromat. then i win.
III she said she wanted to fuck, but she was lying. my room, four in the morning, us two, naked, moonlight through venetian blinds. her lust turns into terror in the blink of my eyes. "wasn't me," she said. was her. she grabbed her panties and i took one last longing glance at the curve of her ass. fuck!	IV my hair. my hair is falling out, strand by strand. i don't pull, i just comb, and it, like moon-pulled ocean tides, descends from my scalp onto the carpet. soon i will be bald. like my father, i gain wisdom through lack of follicles. each hair represents child- hood naivety sloughed off forever.
V guitar strings twang when they break. a thin piece of metal flies at breakneck speeds toward your head, your eyes, threaten- ing to slice your brain in two. from such a beautiful piece of machinery comes the tension of art. when i play, i fear for the safety of my face, hoping that i won't be blinded.	VI do you like to think i'm obsessed with this sex thing? do you think i spend every wak- ing moment thinking of how to get a piece of ass? cause. well. sometimes i do. but not every time! i spend a lot of my day thinking of how to write about my lack of "game." ladies tend to walk away.
VII i lay with my head tilted downwards, my neck elongated, my thoughts siphoning through my spinal cord and down into the base of my pelvis. i talk about me a lot. i watch you glancing at the door with impatient eyes. you would leave, but my pitiable life keeps you stuck with me.	VIII the ugly brown door was open wide. no floor, only shit strewn everywhere; an old yearbook showed his face, his face from the sev- enties. shirts covered in decades of dust. ten year old postcards. you lived here for that long? your memories adrift in the tool shed. water heaters rise up like pillars.
IX when you make me speak these words, i choke on diction and syntax. when i speak, i speak of earth-ending love and you laugh and i sit and simmer. these words, these stupid fuck- ing words. when you make me speak these words, i stutter. i lie here, lax from talking, down and out and killing myself on the floor.	X in the basement we found a dead body, stuck awkwardly in the crawl space. cobwebs adorned the concrete foundation. his shoes were pristine, untouched by the collecting dust. we pulled him out and lay him on the ground. on his face was the biggest smile. we didn't move for the longest time that night.
XI in the autumn, we spend hours among the leaves, and nature pulls us into its ever-changing grasp. we leap in piles. i wrap you in my arms. we kiss. we hold hands. this touch, fingers on fingers, palm to palm, is more electri- fying than most things i touch. your lips are all that's on my mind.	XII darkness in the bed- room. two bodies in heavenly embrace, hot under covers and in passion so pure it makes mother nature smile. sweat slick on the brow, writhing, my hands moving down, lightly up, kissing the small of your back. after sex, we talk of everything we can get our minds on.
XIII when      do         we            ever stop? i am            dying. i can't         control my breath. these hands are                         suf- fo-     cat-          ing me                 now.	XIV when do we ever stop? i am dying. i wade through every- thing just to see you. i can't control my breath. i don't know the ocean from the tub anymore. i am dying, my hands are wrinkled, my voice says nothing but i still talk. these hands are suf- focating me now that you have left me.
XV radiohead is the best band ever. i could listen to them forever and still not get sick of them.       i guess that's all i have to say, dude.	XVI i wish that you would stop nagging at my insides. we are done, that period of my life is over, and yet no matter what i try to do, there you are, haunting me ... i don't want to see your face, or hear your voice, but there. you. are. when i sleep the sheep i count have your laugh. i hate it.
XVII optimus prime, you are my savior. i spent countless days as a child playing with you, contorting the joints on your die cast metal frame, and wishing i could change into something diff- erent, something special and unique. that never happened, but a man can still keep a dream, can't he?	XVIII thirty minutes 'til i see you again. the clock turns into molasses as i wait with bated breath for another mom- ent with my arms wrapped around your arms. my sleep is labored, i toss and turn, but i toss and turn beside you, and each movement is punctuated by your lovely scent.
XIX in the night i ride my bike across the city, enveloped by incandescent bulbs and neon signs and young men walking out of bars. i make the shadows my home. i find refuge in the silence of night. i wait and watch the earth fall into its slumber, and wonder if it will stay cold.	XX these help  don't words five five  these help  don't words words five  these help  don't don't words five  these help help  don't words five  these i    you  for  lost am am   i    you  for  lost lost am    i   you  for for  lost am     i  you you  for  lost am     i make end  the  this make this make end  the  this the  this make end  the end  the  this make end      .
XXI i know where it ends and begins. i watch it swivel, trying to catch it off guard. when i move, it moves after me, as though alive, a being of technology and patience. sometimes it moves without me, seeking me out. on those occasions i lie flat against the floor, to not be seen.	XXII is white a neutral stance for art? or is it, rather, as brash and controversial as black or red or neon green against a multicolored background? is gaudy as gaudy as it should be? who decides these things? is it me? cause if so, i want everyone to wear garbage on their heads.
XXIII - pre-listen damn this fucking bright eyes! why does every- one love him? with his stupid songs--it's like an epidemic! i just want one day where someone doesn't mention bright eyes! damn conor oberst, you son of a bitch, i am through with you and your pretentious bull- shit. goddamn it all!	XXIV - post-listen okay, dipshit, you're not as bad as i had hoped. i still think your voice sounds silly, but this is coming from a guy who loves colin meloy's voice, so i can over- look it. for now, okay? i stil heard that you're a jerk, though. but who isn't these days, you know? so ... whatever.
XXV pitch black when i feel we are entangled in this sepulchre with hands and thighs to kiss and lick tonight this skin to skin em brace this wonder of passion this this this oh god........our bodies in rhythm our minds together the night protruding as moon beams illuminat ing against our skin	XXVI - L