hold the line

there is somewhere a softer you
of cotton blankets and sentimental shit
tucked inside the sleeves of a hipster sweater;
i know it’s there (i have been peeking
between your buttonholes) but
you would rather cut me or make me itch
with your tags, you prefer shrinking
as i wash you in love growing cold (to conserve energy)
to warming me with all the wool
clouding my vision. i thought we were
matched– i myself am worn jeans–
but you want that funky dress in the window
to cover with your folds,
and my zipper’s stuck on the fence
where you placed me to wait.


neither black nor white

i said, you’re hurting me.
you replied that you had to,
that dropping me from this height
was the only way you could remind me
that those wings on your back could be
removed (and the pedestal, too,
is only cheap plywood).

through furious tears i blinked
and opened my eyes to see you
naked and dirty. i wanted to tell you
i had always known you were disfigured–
i loved your mouth more for the acid burns
left on your lips after so many acrid speeches

but i admit to glorifying your ugliness
to forgetting that even beloved hideousness
is still horrific and will sometimes bite back
without kissing the wound.

do me a favor; do not push my hands away
from your open sores, but teach me to see them
as they are, still to tend to them, to kiss around them,

teach me to know the whorls of your gnarled self
as the warrior apprises the worshiper
of his being a murderer as much as a hero–
but be sure to remember that just as you have killed,
so have you conquered,
and that is just as well.

show me, i say quietly into your ear,
hoping you will pull me close enough
to know that i am yours
and say,
let me tell you a story.

before i sleep

laying here our last night
in the crook of your arm
smelling your sweet sleeping smoker’s breath

i want to write poetry to you
of you and tonight, your lips in the light
of an ending kanye west film

closed now, averse to spitting verse upon verse
in peculiar vernacular foreign to my frenchy
southern oreo speech (until you wake);

poetry to how your skin tasted
when you let me kiss it yelling rape
and that quiet scent in your hair
like a child after baths

to how i call you baby,
because you grow more in my memory
every moment

poetry to wanting you
to push your lips into these crevices,
rock my hips into hills of blanket
in the heat of this room,

to how you breathe hard in my ear
and say my name when i’m not listening
love me in slaps and racial slurs
and angry teeth in my twisting limbs–
your knees hemming me like tapestry
stitched in longing and lust
in tender violence, sweet succulent
ash-dusted mouth on my mouth,

i want to write poetry to all this
all of the above

maya and nikki and edward and charles,
lend me your pen, open my mouth,
let me speak of love

i gotta tell you this


perpetual individual slipshod shards
parade, separate, regroup
like that diamond girl, my very own psycho bitch
she precedes me into every room imbued with you,
speaks before my lips can finish saying goodbye
to one another; she shoves my hands back from your back
and pushes them into my own ribs, she says
no. all you need to know are these bones,
silly boy. she has the answers to everything.

i am not strong enough to push her back
i am too curved to square my shoulders,
and so she bends me to string my spine
with her tightrope
(you always feel like you’re teetering with me
for a reason, i just never told you)
looses one after another swift bolts of bitch
and brat, bastard and bully

i cannot battle this broad but
if i had not followed you onto those stairs
she would have laughed me to sleep
and i am tired of hearing the same song
so i crawled on my knees to pull open the door
and like the miracle of marijuana mysticism
you were there

so i stepped out the door into the maryland moonless
and i wrapped myself around you,
and everything was okay as you giggled madness into my arms

but somewhere behind me, i know she is there,
waiting to tell me why you’ll disappear.


quietly high i am
john mayer doing battle
studying piano music
fluttering across
my laptop speakers
high, unbreathing so soft and
wanting to cry for all this
so much very incredible this,
home again and here again and
us again, head to head
glasses reflecting one another’s and

want to cry want to sob soft into the spread
to darken the blue with my blues
my joyful joyblues at your mahogany
beside my cocoa again, all over again, you

home again
quietly high on you here

i wait, i want, i write

there is just enough time left
to touch myself until i come silently
with my mouth open in the dark
and no sound emitted,

to push my face into the sheets
and the pillows and breathe in their smell
like the creeper i am,

to creep about the living room
washing dishes and cleaning things
and pick up the clothes on the bedroom floor
like a housewife

and roll around,content housecat,
on the bed in my underwear

without your gaze pulling those strings
that tighten my shoulders
and lace my spine with shivering needles.

there is just enough time left
to sense the difference between my fingers
and yours touching the most sensitive cunt in the world

to note with throbbing olfactory bulb
the fading fragrance of your hair
and unwashed skin,

to throw things around the room
for the sake of a mess to occupy my mind,

to acknowledge the futility of half-nakedness
without your leer to make it naughty

without your gaze pulling those strings
that straighten my spine with consciousness
of your presence, and gently shakes my spine

before you come home to me at last.

fucking retarded, yeah

i am a stupid fool for the boy
and his tricks, his twisting paths
of words through knotted crevices
of my brain and the tortured pussy
he ravages with his rough hands
his rough nails, an idiot

for torn skin and green-tinged bruises
littering my shoulders with epaulets
as symbols of our wars,

a dumbass for his bad rap
and clever lyricists, for raunchy jokes
and rancid flesh and trembling spine
and broken skin on my collarbone,
my hipbone,
that patch of skin between my arm
and underneath

an ass for his ass slick with sweat
under my nails and quivering with coming
and coming and coming, going crazy
for the tenderness of his lips
and darting tongue,

a raving fucking lunatic alive
with the electricity of his touch
and lassitude, his languid laughter,
his dark-eyed long-lashed let-me glare
over my shoulder in the blue glow of tv screens
and predawn sky

i am a jackass (of hyperbolic proportions)
for the slap-stung starving stasis between
leaving for work and working on me,
working on us,
fighting my demons, crushing my walls,
breaking my will to his whip and the wilderness
of his bed unwinding every snarl and whorl and
tangle of my psyche–

a sucker for his lopsided alien grin,
his twitchy fingers and that luxurious fucking sweep
of spine and hipbones like baby bird wings furled
and that old-tree complexion and oh oh oh
stupid, baby
i’m stupid for you, knot me in ropes
of spineless boyflesh
and keep me for good,