Thursday, November 29, 2007

Evening Wear

I want to wake up in the morning and put you on
In the form of a scarf of fragrance, it won’t matter too much
I only want to put you on.

I want to come home in the evening and slip you off
Off my shoulders or off my neck, it won’t matter too much.
I only want to slip you off.

I want to sleep with you in the black of the night
Draw you to my chin or cover my feet with you
It doesn’t matter too much
I only want to sleep with you.


I came in the dead of winter
under a mound of blankets
just when you were deep enough
my skin crawled under the wool
it contracted my lungs and took
the breath from my throat
you had no problem breathing, I
could smell rum blowing against
my cheeks . . .
and you joined me.

Your Eyes

You used to do that thing with your tongue but stopped when I turned away bashfully. You knew I was never one for extravagance or for public displays of anything. And then you stopped doing that thing you do with your eyes. You know, I would blush and you’d smile? You stopped that an I regretted saying anything at all.

If you want, you can do that tongue thing again.
I miss you.

Lost in a State of Disbelief

I’ve walked around a dead
city in search of what you
claimed love was. You spoke of it in skies, flowers,
laughing children. I believed you and
I committed my days of solace
to a wild goose chase.

Thus far, the love you’ve told tales
about hasn’t jumped out and surprised
me. It’s hidden in a vacuum of a dark
alley inside a trash can or under my
sneaker, I don’t know, but I’m keeping
my eyes peeled.

I asked for directions and I
got the run around. This love
is as allusive as the moon
on this black night
So thanks for nothing
I’m driving out of this one
horse town
In search of something more tangible

Know it all

I could have told you, a long time ago, I knew all there was to know about desire. Mine own hands have made maps mimicking most men's misogynistic desires. I’ve beat them to the punch and I’ll not be ashamed to remind them and you. Does it seem doggedly disconcerting and damning to know you’ll require my permission upon entering? You must think me as wicked as my old mother Eve. But I tempt you not! I only warn you: I know all there is about desire.

Flesh of my Flesh

This hips wasn’t made to carry a baby
nor this sack of groceries.
This hip was meant to shimmy into a little black number.

This back wasn’t made to carry my brother’s weight
nor hunched over a day’s labor.
This back was meant to arch upward like a crescent moon beneath your hands.

This mouth wasn’t made to scream in anger
nor chew my gum in annoyance.
This mouth was meant to kiss the dark stubble along your jaw.

This heart wasn’t made to bear loss
nor carry melancholy or His cross.
This heart was meant to hold you absolutely close and very near.

The People on the Bus. . .

In the quiet, she only has the bus
driver and ‘ol Baba O’Reilly to
keep her company. Both, she’s
terribly dependent on. In the
reflection of the windows she
sees herself [out of the corner
of her eye] scrawling out life in
a tatter edged notebook. To no
one in particular, maybe Baba,
she smiles in the florescent light.
It’s her stop.

Dashed on/against the Rocks

I’m about as two sheets as I can get.
The pen in my hand shakes as I write this for you.
Never again do I want to be this high.
Never again do I want to feel this low.
This is the beginning of a terrible and dependent relationship.
I think I’m going to throw up.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


The name of your love is "me."
The curve of your love's hip, it belongs to "me."
The way your love's back arches beneath you is characteristic of something "I" would do.
The coy smile your love's lips make; those are really "my" lips.
The way your love's presences stops your world, makes you gasp for breath, and plead with God to spare your life for another day in order to be in her ethereal light. . .Those were all brought on by none other than "myself."
Does this suprise you?
Does this excite you?
"I" knew it would.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Flavor Shots to the Gut

The smell of fake chocolate violates my brain
It didn’t ask whether or not to enter my nose.

It’s pal, fake vanilla, is a bully too.
Brash and unapologetic, it reminds me
This is a school yard and I am prey

I leave the coffee house before fake mint,
Fake hazelnut, and non-dairy creamer make
an appearance.

I’m thirsty.

Communal Wait

The people that wait with you
are your long lost siblings
you wait under the same starry night
on the one most dependable force god
can offer you: the bus.
Your brothers shuffle their feet
and your sisters sigh
And you all listen to the crow’s caw
As the bus downtown runs late
You guys haven’t got much time.


I’ve walked the street that shines an iridescent light.
On shoes that have holes, in a dress that is faded.
My companion is the niggling thought in the back of my
mind. It tells me the moon is low enough to change my
Tide. that’s comfort on a grey pavement


The girl that sits on the boy’s lap at the bus stop knows not what she does to him as she bumps and jerks and plays she isn’t aware of his desire or the power that grows in his fist or between his legs she grins and shouts at her friends that pass by showing them the new toy she’s acquired because that’s what he is he’s fun he’s playful and he’s harmless he sits beneath her docile and biding his time until the day comes when she’ll “owe” him a “favor” and like the Reaper he’ll come to collect citing his previous patience his funniness his playfulness his harmlessness the girl that sits on the boy’s lap knows not what must be paid in full poor girl with every bump jerk play she is being taken for a

It’s time to go home. . .

It’s cold and late and you’re drunk
You’ve insisted on taking me home
Although I’ve helped you down a dark
sidewalk. You smell like booze, cigarettes,
and lost dreams.
“Loser. It smells like a Man.”
Your eyes are half lidded your hand
has copped its complimentary feel.
It’s time to go home

Cry on

The snot nosed child that’s crying behind me doesn’t know pain quite like his mother does. With his six or seven siblings seated around him, he’s got no inkling as to what life’s got in store for him. Or maybe he does.

Is he aware that his mother’s food stamps are running low?
That the rent has yet to be paid?
School clothes will have to be borrowed?
Mother will have to haggle his father for support?

Maybe the snot nosed child that’s crying behind me knows all too well what the fates have thrust upon him and his six or seven sibling. It seems the whole lot should have sniffles, including Mama. But he takes it upon himself to cry for them all.
What a responsible young martyr.


We’ve hit this bridge at ninety miles per hour.
Randomness is the best medicine for shock.
My air bag is deflating too fast.
I’m not driving with you again. WE’RE not
Going to try this anymore. I’m out of gas,
You’re low on anti-freeze.
We’ve hit this bridge at ninety miles per hour.
Maybe my randomness will save us both.

Monday, November 12, 2007

White Knight

She's in no need of saving.
If you were capable of it, it's far too late now.
It angers her that you've ridden into town in tarnished armor, thrusting
a wooden sword and atop of a flea bitten nag.
Your face guard is slipping.
It's a waste of her time, you know.
If only you could have suited up years ago.
She suspects you're here out of guilt and not because of your honor-bound
I think she might be right.

sometimes i feel (melon)choly

This rain is getting me down. I walk carefully under the trees. I avoid puddles like lepers. I roll my eyes at squirrels that chatter at the sidewalk's edge. This rain is getting me down.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

you can. . .

shove it.


I am not man or woman, i am the salt of the earth.
I am common.
From the tattered strings of my sneakers to the rough edges of my jeans.
I am common.
The sun shines on my hands the same as the person beside me.
I am common.
The wind whips my hair in it's restless way the same as it does my neighbor.
I am common.
My worries are like ladybugs in a field, small and only brilliant under close scrutiny.
I am common.
My smile is the light of my life not anyone else's.
I am common.
I am the cog that turns, the oil, the labor, and stress that keep a machine rolling.
I am common.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007


I woman drops her reciept and the wind pulls it away from her like a taunting four year old. She trots and then canters whilst keeping composure. After scolding the offending force, she stomps the piece of paper. As if nipping things in the bud. She looks around at the rest of the world for validation. She handled the wind.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007


I steal candy bars that don't fill me up.
I love a man who doesn't fill me up.
I drink from a glass that won't fill me up.
I slave for a craft that I cannot fill up.

Thursday, November 1, 2007


An old woman's bones creak as she climbs aboard a city bus.
She sits in the front, right behind the driver with purse on lap.
Her sheer headscarf is secured with shiny bobby pins
On her face, giant sunglasses reflecting the world that passes.
We pass the old folk's home and her heart flutters.
She's not there, but she knows people, perhaps friends who
Pass the time away there. Or waste away there.
Like passing a cemetary, she holds her breath and says a hail mary
For those who have "passed."
Her wrinkled hands hold her purse tighter, her back straightens
The fear that falls over her face disappears only a few blocks later
Near main street she smiles and converses with others.
Near north street she forgets all about that niggling worry in the
Back of her mind
It comes back only subtly, when she steps off the bus, her bones
Creak their protest and she knows she's damned close to joining
Those who have "passed."