One Month

One month?
It made no sense when I first heard it.
There's no way I should feel better in one month.
I thought about you just the other day
and I tried to make myself cry.
I stood still for a moment and crinkled my
face up. Waiting.
Like a sneeze, it felt like it would come
and didn't. I willed salty discharge to
EJECT from my eyes.
I took a breath and tried again.
No go.
I want an iced coffee.
One month? Ridiculous, I first thought.
But it's actually starting to make some
sense.

Leaving So Soon?

Lying in the nook that is your arm, I never fell asleep.
I didn't relax either. I stared at the ceiling, the crack
in the wall, that box of something I can't identify. I
wonder when will the time come when you move and
I shift.

I've got a toe cramp or a charlie horse, what do they
call those things? "It really depends on where you're
from in the country." I can find my hair all over the
place and that's the only part of me that stays
here.

There's no other way to take this, or give it. I'm
kind of wrinkled and sort of--- a lot of--- disheveled.
The only way to get out of here is to escape from
your arm. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go
just yet.

Yeah, you're right. I gotta get out of here. The cramp
the horse, I don't know what the fuck it is, is acting
as riotous as my pulse. But not in a sexy way. It's a
way that makes me wonder how much time I've got
left.

I'm Good at This

What response can I give on the
inability to fall in love?
Never a good one, it's always one
that will only pass on basic appearances.

You're the Ben Franklin of love!
If that's what I am, I am.
6 scones and seven T's later
You've found my real aversion.

It's that emotional distance
between the kitchen tiles and
the left-over Lo Mein on the couch
The walk is longer than we think.

Just like I've never finished a
dripping cone---I'm not done
with my pretenses of loving
that boy, that strange one.

You can sit here and discuss
my inability to love or fall in love
What was the question? Whatever
looks best.

"Cross Road Blues"

Just like Robert Johnson
I wanted to sell my soul to
The devil to return to you.
Well--- not just like Johnson.
I thought if I stood at
Main and Oak and played
The blues, it would lure
The devil and I’d return to
You. Just like Robert Johnson
I waited. Cars passed by and
Some honked. “Take your
Blues somewhere else!” no
One is appreciative of my
Corner quest. Did Johnson
Have to put up with this?
No one, least of all, the
Devil came to return me to
You. I was not asked for my
Soul, though I would have
Given it. If it would return
Me to you.

Paperbacked

I want a classic story. I want it
Old and outdated. I want it
Mildly sexist. There must be
A girl, not a woman. She has to be
Young and pretty---big tits. There must be
Drama and duress. I’m going to want
Quicksand and pit vipers. I want a
A man, not a boy. He has to be
Tall and brunette w/dimples. He should be
Witty and uncivilized. He’s got to be
Obnoxious and thoroughly fuckable. I want
Tension that’s humid. I want some
Near death experiences. I need some
Danger and mosquitoes. Give me a
Friendly token native. There will be
Virgin sacrifices on alters. Therefore
Vine swinging should be used. Give me
Machismo. I want
Helplessness. I need
Predictability. I could use
Tragedy. I would like
Rebirth. I should have
Romance.