january 2011

warning: putting names to feelings makes them real

in the mirror of the mind’s eye
already, tattoos in suspicious spirals
surfacing– faint, barely whispers,
but existent
and without holding that gaze
or reaching to confirm, shuts his eyes

whispers “oh god,
not again”

Advertisements

i forgot the part where

i bit his finger, taking the roughness
into my mouth in increments: a bit of fingernail,
the first ridges of the print tickling me,
cupping first with my torn lips and then
(growing braver) with my teeth,
a suckling babe guided by other fingers on my lips
parting them slowly as he reached for my breast
in demonstration of perfect symbiosis.
his skin was faintly salty and my free arm,
pressed into the strange heat between his legs
made me realize we were probably together
in wishing that finger had been his cock.

almost love never quite

she thinks, maybe it isn’t chef school
i might be cut out for teaching.
today he fucked her three times

and when he fucks her he asks questions like a child,
things like what’s that and
why is this so warm and what does that feel like?

how can her face flush so pink and what
makes her look to the side like she fears my eyes &
why does it always look like she is about to have an orgasm
ages before it happens & am i hurting her & how the fuck am i supposed to know?
this is why i don’t have sex with girls

talk to me, he demands,
like it’s early morning
with coffee and newspapers and stale breath,
you’re not saying anything.


(he’s needy.) & she struggles for words
around an orgasm and the clumsiness of his self-conscious fingers
while he forces her face to his level.

i know it is wrong that i tend to do this
out of curiosity & i curse the fascination of my hands
with the absurd heat inside her & the fur of her mons
that i hate so much and still touch because it shouldn’t be so soft,
what makes her body so damned velvety? i can’t figure it out
so i keep going.


she is trying not to know he will not touch her again
for months & that he will never let her fuck him in return
but when he looks at her like a six-year-old discovering a girl’s vagina
doesn’t match his penis and why? why? why? well she feels like a pedophile
the guilt stabs her side until she remembers he is only two years younger,
he just acts like a small child.

i love her, truly i do but
it just isn’t like she loves me and i can’t change that
i won’t change that just to dissuage the guilt
or peel the layer of pain out of her gaze
(it looks so pretty there, anyway) i can’t lie to her or me
i feel so guilty when it turns me on to touch her
and when i fucked her the third time,
she had the audacity to look at me in love
as though everything was okay.

it is not okay

but god she loves him & maybe
she will never get to put her fingers inside him like this
& maybe she will grow to hate him for the months she knows will occur
before he touches her again, yes,
she’ll take it, because it’s what he is and she knows
he’s gay and he doesn’t want her,
but he loves her and it comforts her still.

when she comes he makes her swallow her own wetness
and he pets her cunt murmuring this is so soft, why?
& she is panting too much to answer

but i bet if she could she’d tell me she loves me
another time.

she would

ampersand/cyclical sensuality

see the problem so many lovers
friends & undesireds have is that
i put god & the devil in the dryer &
stuck it into my brain so the atoms fused
with every creature in my consciousness

& became a high-speed schizophrenia colored
by lavender-and-chamomile- scented detergent
& winter air; a brilliant confusion wheel
splattered with brain matter

& cyclical sensuality does not suit a normal man
or his ego but really i find it quite fair, i mean
angels have the chance then to be devious &
demons have their day–

though like the song says,
i don’t know a killer from a savior
(& the trouble is that’s fine with me)

china, boy

having established a policy of containment,
sir must you erect also grand walls carved
with spells of defense, i inquire as to how
thick these walls must be, so much cold stone!
& knock curious to see my shadow shift, my
knuckles scraped, my patience exhausted
tirelessly knocking, knocking until
well, no one must be home, surely later
& undaunted i gather my things to wait

(understand i am not michelle branch but
i am no block-stacking child either)

brought to you (by erik satie and the rain, boy lucky)

i come to you
in revealing rain,
unshadow, true flesh,
bright longing

and trailing the scent
of some fancy soap
regifted by a friend
seconds after it was given,

hot water that never lasts
and apple-scented body spray
clinging to clothing more than skin.

trembling and open-eyed
apprehensive and interested,
afraid and curious
(dangerous combinations) i come to you
under slick louisiana dark
and metal air flavors;

i am here, i tell you.
take me.