august 2010

sports psychology

..and across the verdant stadiumstage
they fly, free at last to act their age;
lenient spectators all, we grant
these lumbering, mutated sylphs the chance
to assert their unassailable manliness:
crushing skulls, snapping limbs, for this
of course is infallible evidence that these
are the virulent half of our great species.

but the greatest truth we ascertain
from sloughing through game after nailbiting game
is that in the end these manly men are all
just a bunch of boys grabbing each other’s balls.

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christmas ain’t the only reason (to celebrate the season)

there are people who hate winter
because it is cold, especially snow
i have to stop myself reminding them
that summer sears curses from their lips
tattoos skin into sidewalks and
makes an enemy of blue skies

that it’s actually colder without snow
and that there is nothing quieter
or cleaner, or more hopeful
than the morning after a blizzard.

a mile a millisecond

(dust, you are)

all those joints and jager bombs
earsplitting tracks, rattling teeth in the car
playing death games with steering wheels,
with genitals, and gashes for mouths:

they’ll do fuck all to postpone inevitables
disintegrations of brain cell constructions
tight woven tapestries of tales we told
under purple smoke and deep dawn–

the morning you fell asleep
the night she was locked out and we laughed

the day you taught me
even skin to skin can be chasms apart.

i learned lightning arcing across my flesh
doesn’t always signify serendipital synaptic firings;
i learned that give is a whole lot easier than take.

those weeks are unwinding across my internal organs
and hanging lint-littered down my ribs in ribbons

(yes, darling, we’re losing it.)

one of these days you’ll be nothing more
than the smoke from that last shared cigarette
and a memory burning pain in my cunt
that made it painful to piss a day later

(and to dust you shall return)

(i can’t forget.)

falling out of my mind

this dictionary tells me i’m being burned
consumed by hellflame ambition, acid baths
of hunger and insecurity
for things i’ve probably gotten without realizing it–
but all i truly want

is to be done with your ghost,
to scour away the afterimages of loving and longing
left in shadowgraphs across my flesh

all i want is not to know your name again at night
or find myself doubled over in desperation
because i cannot cry you out of myself
(i really thought i had i really tried i swear to fucking god)
and every moment i spend convinced that you’re dead
paves a path to reminiscence i’m too stupid to resist–

mired in masochism, i cannot deny the sweetness
of your lips in my memory, the tenderness of your touch
or how you pierced my ears with my own name and hung
your love on the lobes so it jingled when i tossed my head
and sang to me of you

i cannot push away your phantom caress; i can’t say no
to your sex in the silence of that september.

i want you gone from my love,
but letting go is blasphemous
and i am too orthodox a follower of faith
in love and loss to deviate tonight.

(if you are) the chosen ones (then i question the choosers)

embalmed as you are in lip gloss,
vodka and gastric juices (because you are known
for regurgitating more than half-truths)
with your layers of gold body dust
cocaine
exquisite cloth
and glitter,

armed to the bleached teeth
with talons and tall tales
and subtle knife-eyes deflecting wounds
inflicted by rumors and rape,
by underage sex and the tribulations
that come with learning to launder money
with clothes and reputations
(never forgetting
that white lies should be washed in scalding water
and never mixed with colors
or hearts that bleed)–

stalking across catwalks and silver screens,
you are more mythical than gods:
every bit as megalomaniacal
as powerful,
as useless.

foxblood

you believe love in my hands
becomes a phalanx of butterflies with
spun-sugar wings
as though moths do not sleep on shoulders,
nor monarchs rest in cages

(i could show you how easily wings are pinned.
you think only of what you can hear and see
but i am so many silhouettes–
how can you know which is my shadow?

go to hell, i want to tell you
you who insist my heart is only a flimsy terra cotta bowl
shaped slick with grooves too smooth to catch forevers on,
you who spy spider cracks in the clay:

you forget the existence of glue.
(or is there none where you’re from?)

and you tell me my affection flies with wings
as weightless as we wish we were, but
you ignore that even the tiny brains of birds
know how to find home–

you refuse to see through my glass walls
to the moths i never released.)

i want to love you so hard it might crush you
but this, too, will pass.