all i need is
a good cup of tea,
(moroccan mint is preferred)
a lengthy classic,
(the catcher in the rye is preferred)
a dog by my side,
(a westie is preferred)
and a love in my heart
(a boy is optional)
Mayhaps I like being a nerd.
It may sound absurd.
That I reference things too:
I'm the one who knows the rules to D&D.
I'm a paladin mother-trucker.
Roll the die and come at me.
I know all the Disney princesses.
I have no shame.
Though, three younger sisters.
So I'm not entirely to blame.
(Mulan is the best by the way, don't even deny it.)
All of the internet references are be mine.
If you don't understand, I'll tell you a second time.
"I don't always flaunt my nerdiness, but when I do, it's a poem."
I'm the kid who has Tron disks and knows how to throw em'.
Use the force and move away from the screen.
My minecraft skills are like you've never seen.
I'll Fus Roh Dah the entire competition.
It'll be like an original Pokemon Card.
In mint condition.
You shall not pass.
Suit up, with all ensued class.
For the nerddom will grow fast.
When I met you, I stopped smoking
and began to paint my nails every weekend evening. I thought
you could taste my sadness as if it were your own
because I did not drink alcohol,
nothing could dilute it. It was always there on my tongue.
You had never smoked or drank or tried
to kill yourself, though, so you did not recognize
the acid and that hurt my feelings more than razors or erasers.
I was the first girl you slept beside,
you the first to kiss my eyelashes like smelling daisy stems
before I became conscious in morning sunglow.
Even December air had the inside of a lemon’s color.
And that was better than smoking or drinking or killing myself
or painting my nails mint green,
picking off the excess from my cuticles, without you.
Smells like mint,
Probably from my toothpaste.
I look at the water that flows,
I didn't cut though,
My heart was ripped from my
Chest and was
Left out to bleed.
I'm so tired.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack. her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet sex without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her snatch from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
you should have seen her face.
i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
I remember Buffalo-
Amherst actually, but the suburb not the college town
My nephew lives in Amherst
But the college town not the suburb
My grandmother lived in Buffalo
and my dad too
My grandfather died there, before I was born
We never said we were going to Amherst
We said Buffalo
Like someone from Los Alamitos might say
they were from Los Angeles
But Buffalo was where grandmother was
But not the fun one
The fun one lived in Gloversville
Which is near Amsterdam, my mom used to tell us it was Amstergosh
Still, Amherst had soft boiled eggs for breakfast
a giant oriental rug on which a small boy could play
but just with his Matchbox cars
and a blow-up Sinclair dinosaur
There was the garage with doors at both ends
Perfect for hiding a car
On a wedding day
There was the giant Chrysler
light green as I recall
In the driveway past which the neighbors lived
with their iced tea with mint and lemon
There were Uncle John and aunt Mimi
Who were like my great uncle and aunt
Except they weren't
Just really close family friends
Uncle John was the one who told me at the age of five
"Always tell a woman you need to leave an hour before you actually have to leave"
We were waiting for Mimi to "get ready" so we could go somewhere
She was taking forever
I do remember Buffalo
But I know there is so much more
that I've forgotten
i never really knew nonchalance
until approximately twenty minutes into ever
having had the pleasure
of your existence
"i'll have to teach you how to surf"
you mentioned casually, sounding perfectly genuine-
which alone was enough to startle me
knowing you were leaving the country
before the water would ever be warm enough
the far rockaways?
my mind's eye gave a grimace and half a laugh at the thought-
but my affections were melting through your fingers.
you stopped us abruptly on the sidewalk,
halted all conversation
and crept up
(as if you had a hundred times)
on to some random brooklyn woman's stoop
and ripped a few leaves off of one of her plants.
i stood idle, feeling warmer suddenly,
trying to disguise any semi-shocked expression i may or may not have emoted..
and watched as you returned
with the most unmistakable grin
and two sleepy little leaves in your palm.
without hesitation you began chewing on one,
while handing me mine
and i listened as you detailed the experience with an ecstatic moan of pleasure.
i knew it was a mint leaf,
but still asked anyway
i don't remember if you confirmed,
feeling so bewildered by the strange glowing glory of you
but i ate it obediently,
as if it were naturally in my personality
to never question eating an unfamiliar plant
from the unfamiliar hand of a man
whom i was most unfamiliarly falling in love with.
These Deuce Shadows, each of their own Accord
Stood sentry by his Strength's Pig-Skin Compete
Though Deuce-by-Scores less his Expect afford
Acknowledge another Mint Day complete
So she was Happy; As your Mum's inspect
To permit your Crunch for her Time's request
For whatever Purpose; Or Leisure bet
Ensure her Thoughts connect to your Life's Best
Though evident must your Sovereignty come
Least by her Nature lock Braces to your Path
Which - soon Released - a Marathon for Some
By her Method must steer your Geomancy.
A Deuce Day still. Double Joys doubled well
Your Mid-Bro arrives; And asks his Flannel.
explain it? as precise as describing emotions can go? alright, i’ll try. it won’t make sense that way, and i think that
that makes it almost as perfect as i could let out.
it was sort of
like a mint leaf
stuck to the roof of my mouth.
kept my tongue
pressed and moving
ever so roughly ,
against and harder-
until i could feel the blood.
a soothing burn,
relative to the kinds of pleasure brought on by
near-boiling water poured
directly over your ankles.
the sadistic kind of love you treat yourself to.
with the beauty of a full bloom under our eyelids.
feeling spring brought upon our skins
as we weave our lights in with the sun during so many of our hours under stick homes not properly equipped with shade.
now that i think of it, we were unbelievably close to the desolation we craved.
i’ve lost myself-
or at least in dreams.
though, when awake
i know exactly where i place myself.
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.
again and again we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of sham.
and blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.
but regret This.