april 2008

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.)



Mr. Hobo:
I merely wanted to inquire of you
as to how the rich guy to my left smells
of packed body sweat and greased money
while you, destitute denizen,
are sweetly redolent of fresh purple grapes in the scorching California sun

a tribute to kaybaby

i like you.

i like the way your hair is never quite one single color,
always moving in the sun like confused shimmering rainbows as a testament to your indecision.
i like the way your lip ring flashes past me all shinyshiny when you talk,
the flowing ribbon of your nervous giggles when you think you’ve said something stupid–
(nine times out of ten i’m thinking what you just said was absolute genius,
though that might be just because i think you’re bloody brilliant)
or maybe i don’t hear what you say at all sometimes
because your rack is so amazing i get distracted.

i’ll be honest. you know it too. (you know your rack is amazing, don’tcha?
look how you blush when i say it. you blush so sexylike, girl.)

i like you.
i like the way you sometimes get upset over things
that make no sense to anyone but us, how you write and write
and blanket paper journals and blogs with pixels and ink in layer upon hasty layer
till it’s a great quilt of feeling (and damn you gotta lotta that)

i like like how shaky i am around you,
how i can’t figure out whether to hold your hand or cop a feel
or fold my hands behind my back like a good boy.

you’re always somebody different and yet you never change.

i like you, girl.

i like how when we talk your words trip over themselves and sometimes
they fall flat on their faces and we laugh at them.
i like the way your hips swish just a little when you walk
and sometimes i think you do it on purpose, you know…
i think you like to make me wonder.

you know what i wonder.

i like you, girl; i like the way you weave your magic yarns in magic cloaks
around my magic shoulders, poetry and spastic moments blending
in the kind of music precious few can hear or understand. i think
we speak our own language, to be honest, and i’m not sure if we’re nuts
or just special (or both).

i like you, girl. i like you so much i wanna give you something.

i’d give you all the poetry your heart could sift through,
music to kiss your ears into submission, maybe a kiss or two
beneath the sweating heads of some screaming romeo band in a crowded venue on Saturday night;
sleepovers without the fear. laughter without the paranoia.

tears with no reason at all. a song in the twilight,
maybe a rose stuck haphazardly in your hair after a shower and a photo shoot–
a thank you note you can smell.

i’ll give you all of that if you smile for me one more time.

walk two moons

i am sitting in my mother’s bed,
laptop cradled on my knees
thinking of how for the past few weeks–
i don’t remember, even, when it started,
but we’ve been living like pioneers and Victorians:

each day hauling heavy pots of boiling water
(after waiting interminable hours) to the bathroom
despite indoor plumbing, pouring them into lukewarm water
jumping in before skin could protest nor cold reach out
to suck the steam away: racing heat to the finish line,
escaping clean and cold with reddened skin
just before the air takes the water’s breath away again.

we boil water for baths,
we boil water to wash dishes.

i laugh at this, when i think of it,
and long for the hot water heater’s swift repair;
but in the meantime we are, my mother and I,
living as if we were as poor as my grandparents used to be
and it’s like living a piece of history
(albeit grudgingly)

you can always go

let’s go downtown, you and me
we’ll trip along the dirty streets, our jackets flapping bannerlike and
singing songs of bopshebop and doo wop and hey
(what’s shakin’, hey Charlie, what’s shakin’ today?)

you’ll be my sax, love, we’ll sing the blues and
we’ll play in a random street corner band,
then disappear;

let’s go downtown, you and me,
we’ll pop into pubs, hey, and see what’s to see
(there ain’t nothing and no one i don’t want to be tonight,
hey Charlie, what’s shakin’ tonight?)
let’s see which of us can go home the most wasted,
brag in the morning on the carpet we tasted in our mouths–
was it Berber, shag, or threadbare? (who knows? we’re rich for the moment.)

you’ll be my drums, love– we’ll play the roll and
we’ll play in a random street corner band (ohmypoundinghead),
then disappear;

let’s go downtown, you and me,
to our secret hideaway down by the pier:
sloshing black water,
winking white stars,
dirty cum floors wide and gaping and waiting for more.

and you’ll be my piano, love,
all hungry for pounding and ready to sing
wide open in your humble offering–

such lovely music we’ll make, baby love! —

let’s go downtown, our show’s in an hour.