Month: September 2010

d.d: indignation and phantom heartache

you have only touched me maybe twice
and i would not recognize your scent
if it pierced my septum so i wore it everywhere

but i remember how you smiled
and in your presence i am a child,
struck dumb and gripping a picture i took of us
of our shoes interlocked as if we were lovers.

i remember you shoving your foot into my face
and how i felt grateful for dark skin because
you couldn’t tell i was blushing like hell
(everyone else, however, could tell)

and the way you tangled your fingers in my hair
like it wasn’t coarse jungle fodder– you made me feel
i was a lion instead of a mangy mutt,
and it was all i could do to keep from rumbling my joy.
i was every king and queen ever loved in your hands
without ever undoing a zipper.

now you’re a stream of facebook statuses
telling me shit about your life without me
and though i was never a part of it,
knowing you’ve forgotten having crafted my crown
has rubbed off the glamour and left me a pauper again.

i don’t know whether to rejoice or resent you.

d’été

summer says she’s ready to go south now.
she is always a dramatic exit sort of season;
we are eased into her departure
by surprise whispers of cool breath on our necks
and deep blues
the deck tinged golden beneath bare toes
hopscotching across patches of sunlight

a soundtrack composed of windchimes
and slower traffic says it’s close to curtains,

and we are given notice by the sudden awareness
of more stars at night
and warmer sun in the dawn, more pinks and reds
than we thought possible.

she plays with you first, that summer devil diva, trickster,
caressing with the chill till you’re ready to close your eyes
and once you’re at rest– a slap of heat.

when finally she’s pissed at you
for not being able to let go, she storms off
and her wake is a freezing blast in the face one morning,
and you are left to ponder what the hell you did wrong this time
while contemplating christmas presents
as you turn to go back into the house again,
gathering your jacket a little closer around your shoulders
while anticipating coming snows and cocoa in the cold
with the slightest twinge of guilt.

caleb (some random presumptuous shit)

your mouth on the inner walls of my temples
says to me, why do you keep coming back
unrehabilitated, obstreperous, unchanged
and expecting change?

why do you wait so long?

one of my voices whispers back
that i return because a circle
never alternates routes,
because the moon will always follow the sun
or the other way round
because an end always precedes a beginning
and because a part of me still believes
or thinks
or is insane

knows it loves apart of you

is afraid of how drastically
the rest of you has changed around it, and

knows/fears you will never accept this:
that i am afraid to change, or that
i cannot change because these patches and pockets of me
are part of who i am and always will be.

not only is that not enough for some people,
but it’s even too much for them
and i don’t trust you not to be another
any more than you trust me to grow into something
you can love properly.

take me as i am,
because i will keep coming back
and pecking dents in your windows
and to some extent all glass is fragile.

letter of complaint

all i want to know is
am i not justified in finding it entirely fucking unfair
to still smell your sex on my cunt six months later
as if you fucking branded me,
as if i am territory now marked for centuries
with semen instead of piss-flags when all you left with
were a couple of beautiful red half-moons in your left hipbone?

does that make me fucking insane?
help me out here.

taken for granted is lost for good

kittredge, you’re a fool–
love does not go without saying.
say it as often as you think it,
as it surges through your fingers and toes and overcomes you
on your bowed knees, your face against the cool earth
supplicating smooth soil– begging it to take all this feeling
because you cannot hold it in, on your own,
and it will break you.

say it when the sun rises and sets,
say it when your finger is describing the curve of a collarbone
or hip
a blemish on the skin of your darling(s);

tell it to the blades of grass you crush beneath your boot
on your way to work in the morning.

tell it to the postman and the bewildered children jumping rope in the street despite the honking of horns
and the smashed bug on your windshield

tell it to your boss as s/he screams, redfaced, about deadlines.

tell it to your paperwork and the bills and the sky and the homeless men under the overpass
go home, and then

crawl into bed beside her
him
them

clasp a waist, caress a cheek, rest your chin in the well-suited curve
of a hip or shoulder
and whisper it: into their hair, their palm, their mouth in a kiss.

love does not go without saying;
without saying, love goes.

2012

so i’m sitting here at the end of the world.
it’s nowhere near as bad as everybody made it out to be–
just a dead end street with some dilapidated buildings
and crumpled invoices. i guess there must have been
a furniture store near here because according to one of the pages
somebody was late paying their latest installment
on a loveseat and armchairs.

there was no explosion,
no flood or overzealous winter. it did rain for a while
and there were some pretty dramatic thunder effects
but it was no more than i’m accustomed to– i mean,
i was born and spent the majority of my life in louisiana.
but anyway, there were none of the theatrics like the zealots predicted
(and if anyone else was around i’d say
“you better get your money back, dude, you got ripped off”)

honestly this is pretty cool, being at the end of the world–
i have all the ice cream and the cookies i could eat,
all the CDs i couldn’t afford, even some high-end designer clothes
and an old Atari console i don’t know how to use.
there’s a suit for when i feel fancy
and if i want to crossdress i can wear the tight sequined miniskirt,
because no one’s around to notice how my body strains at its seams.

i’d say i’ve got it pretty fucking great, mostly.
the only problem is now i have no one to cook all this food
or to care that i wear designer clothes, no one to have sex with
and no one to talk to when i feel like i’m about to go insane
from all this wealth, all this prvilege, this peace and quiet.
there’s no one to make fun of my teeth or my hair
or the way i walk, no one to criticize my poetry
or piss me off by telling me how much better their country is than mine.
(actually there are no countries anymore.)

to tell you the truth
i could really use an argument with my mother
about what i’m not doing with my life
a row with my ex-girlfriend over how stupid she is
or some meaningless banter with a stranger
right about now.