Month: November 2010

had a reality check, cashed it and blew it all in a day

i can dig my nails into the hollows
of your thrusting ass, throat wide to receive
your any everything; i can trill a song
so soul-shakin powerful
punching walls and noses would be your only relief
from such beauty;
i can bat my lashes twitch my hips
tell lies behind lips the color of fire engines
and plums like a real girl
lower my guard and step out of it,
tossing it over my shoulder noncommittally
(and my panties with it) and still
you will go to her.

of course the longest poem i’ve ever written is about death

sometimes, i think about dying.
i almost never think of it at night
or on gray winter days,
contrary to popular belief–
rather, in hot rooms full of sun
and dust motes shimmering in tarantella lines
i think of it, stretched out across the bed
and staring at the ceiling
with lighthearted string music
or some gummy pop song as my soundtrack.

i admit that sometimes while i think of it,
i put on the saddest music i can think of–
because it helps me to think easier, to breathe slower,
to focus. i think about dying
in the shower, watching steaming droplets
bead the deep burnt-sugar gold of my skin
and slip along the ribbons of stretch marks.
i close my eyes under the deluge of delicious warmth
and i think about dying.

potassium cyanide sounds so simple. an overdose of heroin–
but the logistics behind the acquisition would be Herculean in themselves
and i’m guilty of wanting it easy, like every American.
(i like being American.) i considered hanging, once,
but the only bruises i want on my neck should come from a lover.
my favorite plan, though, is a bubble of air. a self-induced aneurysm
injected air into a vein swooshing its way up
to pop like a malignant balloon in my brain. instant infinity,
you see? and the irony would not be lost on me–
dying of air, the very thing which keeps me alive.

a Plath copycat would be as boring as she was.
i think about dying, sometimes,
staring at the body that carts me around because
each sighting is the first and every bone that shifts
beneath the sheath of my skin is a curiosity,
every shock of pain a surprise, every pleasure a marvel.
i’m like a phoenix: i die every night and then i wake up in the morning.
sometimes i think about death.

i know. don’t tell me– it’s a sin or something
because i’m twenty-one. it’s also disgustingly typical
of a tween with everything going for him to contemplate mortality.
i don’t care. sometimes i think about death–

i think of dying,
and then i go on living.

the writing on left ear’s back (i hold the title of your little brother)

this is the poem i wrote on your back
across the angles where your wings belong:

i hold the title of your little brother
as fluid gems between my fingers,
slipping over, under, undulating
(not absorbed, i am too afraid of permanence)

it tickles a little sometimes and makes me giggle
and i feel like a child sitting beside you,
learning the mysteries of language
the vagaries of verse while i peek through the folds
of whatever funny clothing you’re wearing today.

i like your hats best.

i hold the title of your little brother
in my hands in the morning just before i start the day,
press it against my cheek to feel its warmth–
if i didn’t dislike them so much i’d compare it
to caressing a baby bird–
and then i tuck it into a heart-pocket
where it pulses all day,
reminding me that i love and am loved.

john mayer talks about new york

this man has a voice like
tiny intricate watercolor paintings
that remind me of why i like to call them ‘pictures’
little paintings where the buildings and things
are drawin in black ink and then the details are painted
in and they’re slightly out of the lines

he’s got a voice like rain on city streets
early in the morning on movies about love–
that quiet crackle on glass windows with no blinds
that calls to you to press your face and fingers
to their reflections and blow steam clouds
and draw pictures (later to be inked in and painted
in watercolor)

listening to him
i am thinking of a slightly sad person in a train car
on a rainy afternoon, long fingers resting
on a portfolio containing tiny watercolor pictures
and bigger drawings
a traveling artist,
on his way to the future.

all this, from one man’s voice.

you give a new meaning to ‘cold, hard bitch’

i have this little video clip playing in my head
of me creeping into the kitchen on a sultry summer night,
the kind you can only find in louisiana–
those wet-heat heavy nights that cloak you close
and slip their fingers between the fullness of your lips
so it tickles to speak and to breathe

and i open the refrigerator in the dark and
pull out the ice cube tray– crack it on the edge of the counter
just like my mother does
and use my nails to claw out a cube;

replacing the tray i close the door
and as i walk back down the hall to you i slip the cube into my mouth,
sucking it leisurely, savoring the pain in my teeth.
you look curious, languishing across the bed;
you ask if i went to get a drink, and i nod.

“why didn’t you get me one? asshole.”
we laugh. by this time the heat of my mouth and intentions
has melted the ice to a sliver on my tongue
and i slink over to the bed, kneel over you
and ignore your inquiries as to my reasons
as i hook my fingers into the waistband of your jeans
and tug down your zipper, listening to the skrrr-y buzz of its trek;

slipping my hands into the warm darkness between the zipper halves
i grasp your cock, fondle it lightly so your hips lift and you sigh
and for a moment i consider reducing the amount of clothing i’ve got on
and pulling you up into that place you belong in (you know the one)
but i’ve got a plan here and it’s better, for now.

and bending down, i rub my cheek against the warmth of your skin
brush my lips along the tender flesh, graze it a little with my teeth
(your breath catches) and, holding it steady,
i push my lips just over the head of your cock, and wait.
(your knuckles are bent, sheets scrunched inside your fist.)
and when the last sliver of ice has melted
i raise my eyes to yours to show you my special wicked smile
and opening the frigid wet cavern of my mouth,
slip you slowly inside.

that first cry of shock, of pleasure–
it’s exactly what i was looking for.

some shit phil roland inspired

you know what, i am really fucking sick of
all you goddamned comet-creatures
streaking past me on the human racetrack
in colors i’ve never seen before
in smack ribbons and cocaine glitter
splashing into whiskey waterways with gleeful shouts;

you make me ache

i am sick of seeing you fling the finger at sobriety
while i am back here rifling through refuse for treasures to keep
and imagine my own trail of glimmering ice;

you make me ache so bad my teeth throb.

fuck this shit,
take me with you next time.
pick me up. i’ll be waiting.