Beauty doesn’t owe me anything. It shimmers, it fades, I wade, it evades, it shows some leg, it whispers touch me. It charges me the victim, cuffs me, on the stand I do not plead because this is familiar land and I’ve begun to learn my rights and I attempt to handle it – thusly. A recall of compacted, condensed and sealed, censored and suppressed memory; I think I left it underground. I dig, I dig, I dig, I pray my nails don’t dirty. I check my phone. I check my phone again. I pray my hands stay clean. Every night before I fall asleep the last thoughts that cloud my mind are new creative ways to lure you because I know if I stay silent, you who’ve restrained the parts that could be used to need me would continue with your life not stopping to watch me mourn the deer that I mowed down at midnight pulling out the station on the road back to the interstate. The deer, my bloodied forehead, and I start the poem on fast food napkins from the glove compartment; you’d be so enthralled to hear. Us three, plus the ditch at roadside imagining the shock and care, you asking us what happened. I’ll raise my hand and without being called, I’ll say I was distracted. Wipe the blood to cut down competition, vie for your attention. Pray - that what I surface with won’t surface on my throat.
As Seen in Eugene Lang 11.5 Literary Journal 2015 (print)
I Thought You Said You Were A Masochist
You can stop doing dishes with handsoap
making eggs like you know how to eat them.
I can hear you. In the other room.
You never really woke up this morning.
Spinning riverbeds of incense smoke
like they could teach you how
Testing tears to tease out misery,
All things to do for fun.
‘How do the Japanese get off
In lieu of all their guns?’
Like all things left alone too long
they start to mold
and then they’re done.
You say, ‘cut the fucking theatrics.’
You the winner.
Up wake, making yourself mourn.
After Denis Johnson's "Passengers"
The world will burst like a condom in the womb,
the dark will turn to metal and the metal to a name,
but there will always be a bastard riding a bicycle
through Chinatown, strewn with broken glass
among ancient women castigating children in Chinese,
always a slow dialect of rain
whispering of drifting and leaving to the air,
always these subtle beckonings of light from the sky
at the union of “this clarity” and “this storm”
and a woman’s turning – her dangerous, dip dyed flight of hair
like a child scribbling, in an emery,
jagged-toothed, vulnerable to incredible harm
coloring my life, like I will never die.
As seen in Fox Cry Review 2015 (print)
The Patron Saint of Pussy
her sister told her
her tits would sag
if she didn't wear bras
when she was
she bought bras for training
but she was born naked
seeking comfort in a fort
of little girls undressing
in the mirrors of her eyes
of sexual frustration
drugs that crave efficient highs
she is making herself wet
her headspace is worthy of light obsession
and the end of the day feels like
on a month full of sundays
while she screams
at girls with bitchy mouths
at ‘give me something quick’
right through her pleasures
she is starving all the time
AND TO THE POLE THAT MARKS THE BUS STOP
the guy across the street outside my window just picked his nose then stepped out of the street, over the curb and to the pole that marks the bus stop. he wiped the boogers on his jeans and then scratched his ass in one motion while i stared at him in my underwear through sheer curtains & thought “that’s talent”.
forgetting to apologize
of saccharine and cancer
letting them disagree
bad luck, poverty, sad songs
in sarcasm, as validation
tithing to my fellow man
in favor of eternal love
wet dreams of rape and violent murder
It's been a while.