december 2009

tell me that you love me more

ache pulses
in fevered breast:
i want you,

wild-eye waif, you
who tempt this
hunger. angel,

i will devour you.



i want coat hooks hung with cloaks,
mirrors dusted with lines of coke;
bedsheets tangled in moonlight,
and cigarettes, stale, burning white–
glasses we drained and broke.

i want clothes that smell of smoke,
a joint with a single toke
left in it, its promise bright.
i want;

this beauty, this madness will choke
and blind us; these words we spoke
will guide us in lieu of sight–
bright, white-winged in the night,
i want to fly, with music in our throats.
i want.


like some fucked up amniocentesis,
needles piercing rubber walls
penetrating flesh:

what do you find there, doctor–
will my son be perfect? is my little girl
going to be a retard? should i even
bother having this child?

tell me.

i am quiet fetus constricted between
polyurethane/whitewall/plain toy shop
material, resilient. impenetrable.

i’m sorry, ma’am. we cannot tell
so soon. you will have to wait
for the results, like everyone else.

i can’t wait like everyone else!
everyone is is not carrying this child,
you idiot. i need answers.

i am the original michael phelps,
blowing water bubbles through my
umbilical cord.
the space around me seethes with
old grudges and new confusion.


beyond this place the world waits,
claws extended; i hear its wet hiss
in my sleep. i dream of its scraping
against these walls. it is hungry.
it is desperate.
it is my destiny.

this process takes time, mrs. ______.
you must be patient.

goddamn it, if you don’t tell me
the results i’ll sue this godforsaken
deathtrap for all it’s worth.
do you
do you hear
do you hear me?

internalized neuroses
and unexplained desires,
slit tongues and abnormal concepts
of what’s wrong and what’s beautiful:
my legacy is printed here on these
pulsing walls. the ink is fading fast
and i can’t find the way out, but
i know i’m about to be forced
in that direction anyway.

we have the results, ma’am.
it’s about fucking time. tell me if want this child.
ma’am, that’s– that’s not–
just tell me the fucking results, man.

well…your child, he–

he’s perfectly healthy, ma’am.
there is nothing wrong
with this baby.

perfect? he’s perfect?

no one is perfect, ma’am.

no. my child is perfect.

i dread leaving here– but the door,
it’s already swinging wide.

come home, perfect one.
it’s time.


this room is silent, cold and ravaged
echoes of ragged breath and heartbeats savage.

bed stands alone, mahogany cage
sheets whipped to froth, a book with torn page–
silent theater, empty stage:
this room is silent, cold and ravaged.

now the actors whose piquant rage,
whose dart-words from quivers disengaged
sleep drained beneath the moon, that winking sage–
echoes of ragged breath and heartbeats savage.


i beg of you, ghost-(wo)man hidden in clouds
all-seeing, manipulative behind your shroud
let not my worst fear be realized–
a speck in a sandbox, whisper among the loud.

single gray grain in glorious piles of rice
one droplet of water in a pillar of ice
a crystal in the great cirrus wisp:
half-truth hidden in cleverest lie.

oh please, darling daddy, full of grace
let no searching eye fail to discern my face
while scrutinizing milling members
of this plentiful race–

on scuffed knees in silence, hungry, beseeching:
no color lost through brighter lights’ greedy leeching
from my own– don’t let me slip through the cracks
i am pleading, with arms ever higher reaching.