die hard

he came as a shock
under the setting of the sun,
a backwards green mario cap
and all the old jokes, the same smile
the usual flash-fire raised along my spine
in flawless remembrance.

the sex came as a surprise
and even though i bear impressions of his teeth
reliefs artists might shiver for
while dentists clamored with fists of fifties,
even though miniature knives pierced my labia
when i pissed not thirty minutes ago
(he is always so rough, he tears me i am sure)
i am still not sure i wasn’t dreaming.

before my shower, my skin carried his scent;
i did not want to be clean, but compulsions are demanding
and so i scalded his sex, his teeth
and his memory from my flesh with guilty pleasure.

he is home again and his lungs are caving in
as here in my living room i blow, frantic,
on the embers of his memory
and write a poem to hasten the flame.


eat your

guard it jealously,
for they will smell its openness
for miles, their nostrils will dilate
in olfactory orgasm at the pungence of its need,
their ears sharp to its throbs and mewls

keep it close, for their mouths will salivate
for its novelty. they hunger for the unsoiled
and defilement is a rite of passage–

the sweetness of ruin makes their tongues ache
with longing.

hold it tight, at all risk– your opportunity cost is only
the swell-sweet bright arc of pain in bold strokes
across the white of your ribcage,
the gray of your brain
and the raw pink of your innards (which, i warn you,
will twist if you fail to protect what is yours)–
i promise you, pollock will forgive in time

you will be safe,
if only you hide it away
tuck it, bury it deep
and by all means– by any means,
let no one near.

summer, she taunts me

i am waiting for the rain;
impatient for the plop of cold wet
on my face and arms, for frantic flight
indoors, for racing like children to the windows
to watch it pour

impatient for cobalt run through with white
and coal clouds stomping mightily
overhead, for temper tantrums of thunder
and the ground to slake its thirst–
to become full, soaked, saturated
like my heart with the sound–

i am waiting for rain to come,
praying for a storm,
hoping for a torrent

and please god, won’t you oblige?

you give a new meaning to ‘cold, hard bitch’

i have this little video clip playing in my head
of me creeping into the kitchen on a sultry summer night,
the kind you can only find in louisiana–
those wet-heat heavy nights that cloak you close
and slip their fingers between the fullness of your lips
so it tickles to speak and to breathe

and i open the refrigerator in the dark and
pull out the ice cube tray– crack it on the edge of the counter
just like my mother does
and use my nails to claw out a cube;

replacing the tray i close the door
and as i walk back down the hall to you i slip the cube into my mouth,
sucking it leisurely, savoring the pain in my teeth.
you look curious, languishing across the bed;
you ask if i went to get a drink, and i nod.

“why didn’t you get me one? asshole.”
we laugh. by this time the heat of my mouth and intentions
has melted the ice to a sliver on my tongue
and i slink over to the bed, kneel over you
and ignore your inquiries as to my reasons
as i hook my fingers into the waistband of your jeans
and tug down your zipper, listening to the skrrr-y buzz of its trek;

slipping my hands into the warm darkness between the zipper halves
i grasp your cock, fondle it lightly so your hips lift and you sigh
and for a moment i consider reducing the amount of clothing i’ve got on
and pulling you up into that place you belong in (you know the one)
but i’ve got a plan here and it’s better, for now.

and bending down, i rub my cheek against the warmth of your skin
brush my lips along the tender flesh, graze it a little with my teeth
(your breath catches) and, holding it steady,
i push my lips just over the head of your cock, and wait.
(your knuckles are bent, sheets scrunched inside your fist.)
and when the last sliver of ice has melted
i raise my eyes to yours to show you my special wicked smile
and opening the frigid wet cavern of my mouth,
slip you slowly inside.

that first cry of shock, of pleasure–
it’s exactly what i was looking for.


this stable’s wood is smooth,
stalls varnished in high gloss-
temptation in squares and angles
and the saddles on the wall.

my feet are sinking in sweet hay,
my fingers tense and waiting-
my spine half ampersand,
half arrow.

this stable’s horses stare me down
like monoliths sculpted in flesh,
sleek coats New York would envy
and the curve of ephemeral smiles.

my breath is caught:
sunlight glistens off heaving flanks,
ensconced in white hair,
flecking black hair in (cliche) diamonds.

frozen here, i am a statue
to the horses’ obelisks:
do i suit up and climb astride,
or run away?


you are
the sticky thick heat of
southern summer night; you are

the heavy velvet dark sky
and the breath of stars
scattered thereon;

you are the distant wink
of someone else’s dawn, you are
the low ripe glowing moon–

you are
smoke and silk swathing skin
in dark rooms and opium dens
you are steam over baths
burning skin in your wake,
the first kiss of cool
on the other side of the bathroom door– you are —

a first kiss,
the first taste,
a final caress, you are
every goodbye never spoken,
and every hello whispered
across valleys of pillow and memory–
you are

waitress: a tribute of sorts

you ask: is there any merit
in a life molded around six a.m. weekdays
(sometimes earlier),
bottles by the back door before suiting up–
in being a ninja of nourishment, catwalking on last night’s
oh my aching corns in too-tight shoes;

say hello to Old Man Rybjznski, return his toothless grin
(how the grandkids, Mr. Rib–
your youngest one,
she lose her teeth yet?
Yeah I know how that goes.)
twist-twist your broad hips
carving paths to the back rooms
and a moment of silence,
a smoke and then WHAM


sixseven orders of waitwhichonewasitagain?
table six wanted vanilla sodas, twelve asked for beer
order up [lady you got change for a ten?]two more tables waiting and
my corns are screaming bloody murder
singsong hummingbird headache in temples of the mind
(I think I got one last Advil somewhere in here…)

and hours and hours of ninja-ing,
cajoling passing belly dancer-weaving (WATCH THOSE HASH BROWNS)
& last one!
last table to swipe clean while humming your love song,
last light shut off once Marty’s done mopping
untie, unleash, unwind:
another day done.