june 2010


asks: location
(though in reality “where are you?”
made its verbal appearance,
snaking across wires
into eyes and ears awaiting)

darling (i cannot stop that word)
no matter the season day
time month mood
madness or none,
find me in your sky
or sun; find me
in your bed, find me anywhere,
for at all times
in madness (what else is love but?)

here i am
will be
(never not) —



no, seriously.

come on, pretty boy, come on now,
i ask you: let me in–
between my thighs there is no pistol,
but i’ve long since learned to pretend.

my palms are rougher yet than yours
my legs are just as strong,
your last conquistador held you fast,
i can pin you just as long.

pretty, pretty angel boy
judge me not by what i lack,
i promise, if you unleash me
there’s nothing i’ll hold back.

come on now, pretty, pretty boy.
i beg you: take me down.
that princess sounds the knell
each time– i’ll not utter a sound.

i’m just as good with pistols
though i learned to shoot them late.
you’re dubious, as i lack a holster,
but i can compensate.

come on pretty boy, oh come on,
i beseech you: take me on;
i got a whole case full of pistols now,
and the night’s forever young.

we’ll play this game for hours,
days, weeks– it matters not–
i promise by the time it’s done
you won’t miss what i haven’t got.

i’ll show you what i’ve got.

smoking feat

as teenage hellions
in suburban underworlds
fraught with backdoor dealings
handshake heists
and hushed-up divorces
perhaps we should have wished for wings–

but we never wanted for a heaven
or for angels’ breath
so long as our own frosted the night sky
with carbon monoxide crystals
in the shape of control and cancer sticks;

we needed no magic but the cherry glow,
no music but whispered secrets and
no heaven but the lot of us,
up on the roofs together in summer night

we were happy, i believed then

and i still do

of a summer

june nights in texas
bring warmth that clings like satin
in the dark, gentle smooth richness
on my skin between breaths of breezes
from an asthmatic god somewhere overhead
taking pumps off his inhaler junkie-style;

i settle in my mother’s lawn chair on the postcard balcony
and kick my ashy feet, daydreaming in dusk of the seventies
and eighties– i’d never wish to be born then,
their hair was too high and later too pointy
and i just can’t identify with most of the music
(except led zeppelin)
but it seems like all my mother’s stories of growing up
involve nights like these spent with cousins and friends
drinking on the backs of cars, naming constellations in slurred voices
going skating in cracking-whip lines
swimming under white sun and blind skies:
in other words, being kids in ways that today
seem like storybook ramblings to me

and now in two thousand ten i am twenty going on ten
in a college t-shirt and blue jean shorts i cut myself to fray just so,
imagining myself in somebody’s garden
in trouble for stealing a cold watermelon
the whipping i’d get later would hurt,
but i’d remember the first crisp bite of that melon
long after my legs had stopped smarting.


but why else to breathe in said joys
save for in the hope of creating cancers of beauty
in the cells to fester gorgeously,
metastasizing in breathless succession
throughout one’s body until,
gloriously consumed,
we burst in ecstasy?

pity the wretch who wears the patch instead,
and cries himself to sleep
as his bliss flutters broken-winged to the window,
and smacks the time and again

it could have slept in the shimmering cage he built,
and been safe and warm, fed and exercised often
rather than concussed, blind,
and in the end, useless

reality check

i laughed so hard tonight
i pissed my jeans
it was the first time in years
i would have felt ashamed about the jeans,
since i am twenty years old
but i was too worried at the realization
that i haven’t laughed hard enough to piss my jeans
in years…

what sort of life am i living
if i haven’t laughed hard enough
to piss my jeans?

that haunts me.

body by nature

i scorned this temple once
for its walls not made of that marble i desired
its stones the wrong color,
its acoustics’ sour notes rung thrice daily
in the chapel upstairs;

come a summer sunset,
i found myself locked in and now,
wandering flagstone floors
with steps which echo a hallowed song
through these hollow halls,
i find myself bewitched, bewildered:

whose masonry this, i want to know–
whose craftsmanship? what carpenter’s hands
curved these corners which capture my consciousness,
set it writhing in wonder and restless wild wanton longing,
my own whirling dervishself careening on tiptoe
through these halls unable to stop?

i scorned this temple once–
now i am lost in it,
and await with delicious anticipation
every twist of its corridors;
if you come for me,
don’t rescue me too quickly.