Month: July 2010

ritual dance (mars envy)

if i had shared his skin, and felt your nails rake down my back
so that the morning sun raised messages in invisible/visible ink,
forsaking voicemails and text;

if i had been her heart, and felt the (Trojan brand) protection
of your strength around me or perhaps in me;

had i been any mouth imprinted with the signature of your kiss,
any stomach slightly tensed long after you had made it quiver and relax,

had i been the blood on your silver tongue of a night’s sweet surrender–

still i would not be satisfied.

the fact, my lord,

is that i feel not so much the desire to be (of) you,
to be beneath you, or beside you
not so much the longing to be of you
as the insurmountable need to be you.

(i almost wish you’d torture me for this, punish me,
if only so i could say i had felt your passion.)


what of traveling.throwaways

over London,
i am sleeping in dreams of soft paper
scrawled with messages of pissed off and thoughtful;
the moon in my window is shy of my eyesight.
he trembles beside the windowpane,
awaiting permission to enter–
a vampire the way i like vampires least: asking for things,
apologizing for things.

over Rotterdam,
i am sleeping in dreams of wet paper
stained with remnants of i hate you for five minutes
and five coffees attempting to prod the writer awake;
they failed, but his pages took flight on the wind
and now they’ll scent the air with their poignance,
and make it metallic.

over here,
under roofs unsteady, an attic I’ve never seen
and only remember by the ladder in the driveway-
i am sleeping in dreams of torn paper strewn across carpet
long scarred by candle wax,
various evidences of insomniac artistry.

what stories remain from these pages,
what histories reside,

i may never know;

but i will wake restless and fill several more
with my ponderings thereof

i can(‘t) do almost anything to you

the world outside my head is separate from me.
i find myself often wishing to reach for your hand
and pull you/seduce you inside of me in vulgar and vulnerable ways
so we could sit crosslegged in the center of my skull,
your back to mine, in silence.
i asked you whether there are freckles on your back
and though i didn’t think of it then
i wonder now if i wanted to know if maps exist in your flesh
to guide me down to where your heart lies asleep,
into your skull where i can tiptoe on your spinal cord
and leap off into the canyons of gray matter where you hide.
i am trapped in my skull.
you are buried in that brain.

coffee accelerated, cold-hurting, late night sensual i sit here,
refusing sleep though its eyes loom luminous over my shoulder curious and waiting–
he thinks i’ll go with him. think twice, morpheus; your will is no match for mine,
not when i ache from the follicles in my scalp to the commas of my hips pausing for breath
to inhale between my thighs new concepts of sensation and sex i have not had.

sometimes i feel as if i am not a good friend to you. needing to be a good friend to you
is overshadowed often by longing to be a lover curved like carved wood over
the bones of your hips in morning light; desire has almost always (especially lately) eclipsed duty
and this is one of many reasons you will not let me have you.
i want you.

my mouth is closed but i am speaking to you with roving tongue over slick teeth:
they should be clamped on your earlobe,
my nails deserve to tattoo your back in blood henna
my ankles to hook over yours
i belong as a trap to ensnare you and you will not let me close.
you insist that i remain wide and waiting
and hungry for your submission.

forever is not logical,
but i refuse never.

mea culpa maria

i apologized
not with my mouth but
words these things are
too difficult for my mouth
to contort into the shapes of but
i apologized
and it did not make me cry
to say i am sorry
sometimes my pride rears
like african lions with native american hearts
and french arrogance
i am all those things and more

i apologized with dry eyes
to my little humble queen
she is actually bigger than me
she dwarfs me in all honesty
she is still my little humble queen

i said i am sorry and i meant it
rare, that i mean an apology
[i do not believe in sorry but
she warrants occasional lapses in habit]

little queen upon whom
i have heaped rages and hurts
deserved by others
little kitten who has tasted
only the sourest cream from my dishes

miniature aptly-named madonna-girl
you do not deserve my tiger-madness
my lionhurt
my leopard rage
i know it
you walk willingly across my savannah

i cannot keep the ground treacherous for you
any longer
i am sorry

history (a-side)

to sidle through time
desirous of soaring

to maneuver,
dreaming of leaping

to roar,
longing to sing;

lionhearts in leopard skins,

slinking like satin gowns
down the body
of history– cloaking,
conforming to shape
and style–

my identity:
the tempest confined by the teapot,
a wolf in softest fleece–
a furnace in a flickering eye


the way you look now, with your long fingers
spread against your cheek and your eyes closed
like gentle sleep behind their lenses,
i could believe that in the furrows of your brow
are planted dreams, in need of only a little water to bloom.

miles and miles of black, of emerald
and jade and sapphire separate my fingertips
from your throat where it is bare
as your head falls back to catch notes on your tongue
like sonic snowflakes–

i watch the flush of your mouth move slow
against your palm in time to music
and wish you could always be wrapped in its arms.
then you’d never be lonely again.

basquiat was insane and so were the others

a year before i was born
one of those comet-creatures
(yet another) overdosed, died.

while watching a movie about his life
i was shocked to see someone
appreciate his work premortem

(death is after all what skyrockets true artists to fame)

reflecting on reflections of past genius
blurred by cocaine dust and paint smears
i think of two things:

there are few things more beautiful
than coltish gents in lace and lengthy gowns
or cybergoth dress
(or any other attire that makes society squirm
in erotic humiliation)

and/or men in loose clothes and paint spatters;

poets and picture-takers are crazy
musicians are fucked up but
you know as well as i do that the truly insane
(you know, the ones who make psychotic sound like “exquisite”)
are those fucking painters