I taught him English words,
taught him "gamble" and ****
I taught him "lullaby," and he taught me
his favorite French pick-up line:
something about thieves.
My clumsy tongue and chapped lips,
my Southern twang
made him laugh.
We went to a show together
- a punk band with a ****** name –
and he left early,
left me with a wink.
I fought for my life in that concrete room,
gasping for air,
swinging arms wildly.
The next morning he kissed all my bruises.
His gap-toothed smile is a poem I wish I had written.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:10 AM UTC
There is a stranger sleeping on your floor
but you wanted an artist.
Beautiful things aren't easy.
I am tamed, comfortable.
You are wild. Smoke slips over my nose
when I think of you.
Alcoholic sweat, fingers down my throat
and I am North,
northbound.
Ivy League meets the Yellow Rose.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:09 AM UTC
I am here
I am staying here
I am the same I am unchanging
I am a ********* perpetual
motion machine please strand me
on a desert island I will survive
by eating sand
I am here
I am staying here
with my back to the sun my skin will burn
I will curse the recessive traits
of my father
I will regress into the days of caves and
I will paint my face
on the walls and
I will paint my face
on the stones so
thousands of years from now French boys
can find them and wonder
am I the missing link
I am the weakest link you can find me
if you try
your fingernails can scrape the rock but
the earth will cry
and tell you I was never born but
if you scatter the bones
of your fathers all will be forgiven:
for God so loved the world he gave his
only forgotten son
and I sometimes
see his face on the walls
and
oh god I am here I
am staying here
I am the same I am unchanging.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:09 AM UTC
It’s gotten too heavy, child.
Much too much
for your weakened knees,
your delicate wrists.
You’ll never be a dancer
or a poet. A singer, a lover,
a sister, or the President:
Baby Boomer lies. Baby,
we're going nowhere
and it’s heavy.
Heavy like your breathing,
heavy and full
like your blue moon eyes.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
Hand over hand, day climbed into night -
our noses bloodied -
our eyes bright with the glare
of neon signs.
Empty laughter escapes from the lips
of a woman, like little
drips
from a gutter.
Gutter hands, gutter voices. Is this
our Renaissance,
sealed with a kiss?
On and on the world turns,
and in her hand a cigarette burns.
Breathing in humidity and
a thousand evaporations:
alcohol and enmity
and sensual sidelong glances.
“I had the taste of blood and chocolate in my mouth, the one as hateful as the other.”
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
I am reduced to:
Ten fingers.
Twenty-eight white teeth.
Two firm arms and two strong legs and
three
parallel
lines.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:07 AM UTC
Holding a prayer between our teeth,
we
slid
down.
Knees scraped, sand in our shoes.
Across the phone line, other voices.
The sound of traffic;
my hips, my shoulders
become highways.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:06 AM UTC
Crème brûlée
and a clean white dress.
Feed me from your finger -
they called us Silver-Plated:
an open locket,
like angel wings.
Laughter;
the melting point of wax
means nothing to us.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:05 AM UTC