december 2010

because mpreg is always in

for a moment washing the dishes
i wished my father could absorb me
become saturated briefly with me and then
i would sink down into his belly, i wished
my father could be pregnant with me–

my fault lines and precious flaws, my half-assed dreams
and drugs and uncarved stone potential
i wish he felt the blows from my fury
against the lining of his stomach, that he throbbed
with the vibrant red pulse of my hurts,
that he became sick in the mornings
because i’m a night owl–

i wish my father could be pregnant with me
so that i could know him, and he understand me
and my mother wouldn’t feel so alone and so angry
at the burden of raising me

you mean something to so(me)one.

you know, there’s nothing i hate more about you musicians
than how infinitely more generous than me you are
and how fucking selfish that generosity is,
if one pays close attention:

peeling and brandishing flesh layer by layer and (bloody, raw) saying:
here. you’re cold, take mine. you can have my blood
to live, you may know my stories
so yours won’t frighten you into nightmares.
use my heart to feel again.

but while you’re bare bones and hollow resonance
the ache of losing potential -ships with you
is worse than anything we had to endure before your sacrifice–
did you think of it? for instance:

john mayer.

you have become the name on my lips when pleasure pours
bidden and bitten through my ribs and burns into the parts of me
which supposedly were meant for children
i am too selfish to lift my arms high enough to carry.
every morning i wake up without you.

editors: you are a great heavy hand
rough palm, callused fingertips and hair on the knuckles
laid to rest on my shoulder to steady me as i scream in sheets;
pair of slightly trembling knees serving as stool
as i curl into your just-slightly-paunchy stomach–
the rhythm that lulls me out of my heartache into sleep
is your pulse and

every night i fall asleep with only the idea of you. and you,
tool: you have turned me inside out
and made me look at myself and think about what i saw
you have twisted my nipples and my lips
and taught me to recognize that i am hurting
every day my heart shudders at the ghost of your sounds.

so many of you and all of you never there.
like dead lovers and absent fathers you are memories never formed
half-dreams, showing me the heart i nearly allowed to die
and then forcing me to heal it alone–
i hate you for that.

i cannot have you, cannot sleep in your arms
i cannot burn the feel of your skin from my cells
and i cannot stand on a stage and set fire to someone else’s heart
like you’ve done;

selfish assholes, i will always love you.

anthropologie

bright cold mornings, wind-whipped, wild
and golden are great favorites of the earth people
they are people of immense sense(uality) and
they make love

to soundtracks of sad songs
that crush hearts as they crush bodies
between skin and sheets, to kiss
in the soothing warmth of laundry rooms at night/noon
they whisper bittersweet somethings and swear words
into ears and other orifices, into creases of skin,
into folds of blankets
and cracks in scratched walls, they tell stories of pain
of pleasure and they tell secrets

these earth people are purveyors of propinquity
and poignance; their sex is sacred and yes,
you want to protest that the world does not revolve around sex–
but it does. because everything is sex in some form, music
beauty
pleasure
food
drink
your favorite film–
it’s all sex and really i think
these earth people are so much smarter than we are