“When do you feel sexiest?”
kisses liquor-infused whipped cream
and a broken remote.
A new comforter.
red and blue blinds
throbbing beyond my eyelids—
“you’re falling asleep”
no I’m not
Chest hair curlicues
iron on the floor
cement block with contact lenses
and condensation from early morning.
kisses sighs fresh sheets
and a broken remote.
“Get naked”
all naked or just a little naked?
new haircut stolen DVD’s kisses
on cocoa butter skin—
where’s the remote?
Nighttime spasms.
Legs and diaphragm.
kisses liquor skin wet –
sweat and strawberry flavored love.
A,B,C, or D?
definitely A.
Missionaries.
Sensual.
Another movie and a
fresh pair of sheets.
kisses liquor and a
broken remote.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 3:00 PM UTC
She said she would be willing to get a matching tattoo
with me. A flower permanently imprinted on our skin.
She likes orchids, I like lilies. And even after moving
away she understands my addictions; growing old,
the rain, Team Gibbs, bats, my love for pistachios
and maybe even my need to come back home.
As much as I love Ohio, it’s nice to go home
every once and awhile. Saving up for my tattoo
is not easy when I keep spending my money on M&M;’s and pistachios,
especially when my mother isn’t there to pinch my skin
and tell me to put my wallet away. She’s not old—
but I certainly feel like I am when she says she’s moving
away from me. I toss and turn and move
in my sleep thinking about how home
will never be the same without her. The cats are getting old;
their time is coming. Maybe we should get a tattoo
of them instead of flowers—light and dark brown skin
warm and cuddled together, munching on pistachios.
I remember when I first became addicted to pistachios.
It was a church Christmas party and the wine was moving
closer to my hands. Mom said I could, as I felt the buzz of my skin
react to my fourth glass. She shook her head and drove me home
laughing at my sneaky attempts to act sober. A tattoo
was out of the question; what would I think when I got old?
Our relationship now has changed, intimate friends never too old
to dance or talk about our *** lives, throwing pistachios
at each other or plan out our future tattoos.
I am going to miss her, and she me, as she moves
on with her dreams, starting over, building a new home
In a place we’ve never known, but always in the same skin
that I have loved my whole life. A soft, toasted skin
that has been passed down to me for my days of old.
Born, nurtured, taught and loved in my mother’s home;
home-cooked meals that surpass the freshest of pistachios
so I would one day learn how to cook. No matter where she moves,
my mother will remain deep in my heart, my skin—like a tattoo.
She gave me my skin and approved of my tattoo,
provided me with a home complete with pistachios
and an old promise: her heart is unmoving.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 8:03 AM UTC
I cannot write about it anymore-
the shame,
the fear…
How can I tell anyone when my secret lays
crudely hidden inside
the trunk at the foot of
my bed, camouflaged by music
sheets and the dusty Playboys
that my brother passed down to me.
I never asked for them anyway.
I hide
in self-isolation
safe from the unknowing uncaring
judgmental bloodthirsty oblivious
eyes of Mechanicsville,
Maryland.
Maybe I could catch a horse ‘n buggy
and work my worries away—
No—
they would sense my disease
and throw me to the wild dogs;
more like Labs and Puggles
but who’s keeping track.
I can’t even walk the halls anymore.
Ostentatious girls smiling, winking, tossing
their hair back—
pathetic.
I keep my eyes to the floor.
If I allow myself the luxury
of looking up I might
see their arms…
Firm, rigid with muscle
and that just leads to the shoulders
and neck-
broad and thick,
trembling with laughter—fear
skin so smooth—kissable—no
the face…
eyes back on the floor.
Building Service Workers missed a spot
I say to myself as the
ache below my waist
slowly dulls away.
Isolated. Home.
kickin' back, watchin’ TV with the bro.
Innocent stuff till he channel surfs
and gets called into the kitchen to wash
his dishes just as the vile remote decides
to land on MTV.
His lazy *** better wash
those dishes, cause I am not
about to dry my hands out
for him; lotion’s getting expensive these days.
***
That man on the screen has a nice one.
No shirt—
shoulders muscle back ****
calves fingers hands arms
neck hair face –
I’m aching again,
Gotta get out of here before my
brother sees me and calls me
a girl for the way I run.
I need to get out of this life—
this isolation…
College.
I requested a single.
Living with another man would be
the death of me.
I spend my weekends with my
iPod in my ears, drowning out
the masculine shouts and laughter
of frat boys playing Ultimate
Frisbee on the Hill.
however—
I do not allow myself the
luxury of looking…
broad necks rippling shoulders
sweaty shirts toned legs
beautiful faces –
I can’t stare or they might
invite me to play.
There are support groups—
safe havens and potential
friends who will understand.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
First meeting.
So many men –
understanding smiling beautiful—
I think I’m gonna come back.
He welcomes me.
asks how my first year is going –
I’m not afraid to look at his face.
our fingers touch as we walk back to
our dorms—
—and I don’t feel so isolated.
I can finally throw out those dusty
Playboys now.
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 10:29 AM UTC
Ro-
mance is in the air – or
so they say at this time of year in
the heart of the Thousand Islands.
No-
thing quite welcomes summer
like the morning smell of seaweed fresh-
ly caught on some vacationer’s
pro-
pellers - excess water
draining from the boat’s engine, creat-
ing sporadic puddles up the
street.
I see no romance in
Alex Bay – too many tourists; too
old, too young – No young lovers. Not
E-
nough privacy in the
souvenir shops or bustling streets for
young lovers to embrace and watch
the
sun set or rise off the
Dock of the Bay. Mother duck leading
her ducklings towards the bread crumbs the
old-
er generation has
cast aside for them in the fishy
water. Kids just don’t know what ro-
mance
is anymore. Perhaps
because Spring is ending and not be-
ginning. I must find the romance
in
these islands. There was a
story passed down through the years of Boldt
and his lady and Hart Island.
He
re-named it Heart Island
and with his millions he made it just
that. A castle he built her, a
Play-
house for the kids. Gardens
and walkways, a Yacht House, a Tower.
All this he built for his love.
Can
you imagine, waking
up every morning to the smell, the
sounds of an island called yours? In
the
midst of the St. Lawrence,
the freshness, the cool, the sun beating
down on your grass, your estate. How
ro-
mantic an idea.
Of the one-thousand, seven-hundred
and ninety-three islands, this one
be-
longs to you and your love.
To travel by Ferry each day to
the Bay, to dine every night at
Cav-
allario’s Seafood
and Steak. Oh the wonders of Alex
Bay – I found romance after all.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC
(after Nikki Giovanni)
I tried to love them. Those mag-
gots that kept eating away at me.
They couldn’t wait for me to die,
crawling and chewing like it
wasn’t nobody’s business. They
said why don’t you go ahead and
die, just a waste of sin and liquor
anyway. Shielded by the absence
of light I let myself try,
try an’ love them. But
they crawled and crawled
until my eyes fell out.
Just up and fell out so I
couldn’t cry no more so
I up and let myself go. Those
maggots laughed and
laughed underneath Crocodile tears.
But I couldn’t love them. They
weren’t real people any-
way. Just no good worms
trying to hurt me.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC
She told my legs to take a bound across
the tennis courts. I thought, No problem mom,
and off I went to show them how it’s done.
First right then left but – **** A shooting pain
in my left ankle. **** I thought, not now
not here. Another injury this year.
Before it was my knees, and now the day
before a meet my ankle decides to
give out on me. Ma’ Musbach said
to not worry, but knowing me – I did.
The meet, it came and they were all at ease.
While I warmed up the pressure showed but I
needed to push myself so I did not
back down. This challenge with my body scared
the living hell out of me but I’ve done
it all before. They called my name. The air
was still. Breathe; one and two and three – I land.
Applause. I breathe in deep, astounded by
my luck. I had performed and not just that,
but well! My leg was fine, there was no pain
found anywhere throughout my ankle. And
I was for sure not going to let go
of that ‘First Place’ I had dreamed of for so long.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
flying into Chi-town
Altoids of various sizes
litter the scenery.
An artfully constructed
playset thrown off
by the skilled placement
of refreshing breath mints.
Maybe they’re off brand,
or perhaps ecstasy,
though I don’t see any
smiley faces or hearts.
I like to look for high school
tracks as we descend.
Forget the football fields,
they’re far less interesting.
Mostly black, though
sometimes gravel, dirt
or red and even
purple once,
though not in Chi-town.
The homestretch extending beyond
each curve;
no hurdles in sight
much less a sand pit.
A mile inland
there is some sort of water.
The body scattered
and split like some
kind of man-made accident.
shallow sand banks
invisible from the ground look
like dead whales.
floating (submersed) there
like lifeless, sandy corpses.
Maybe it’s because of my “Free ***** spree,
but I see whales.
I’ve never been to Chicago,
only in and out of the airport
and catching glimpses of what I
can see through the windows
of Midway.
My good friend has flown with
me once, but we parted at the
big city.
Have you ever wondered why
cities are built like mountains?
the tallest buildings in the
center with everything
else leading up to it?
Kinda like that Verizon commercial
with the magnet and lead…
Maybe I’ll Google it
to find an answer.
There’s a private airport a
little closer.
(Too good for Southwest to land
there). Private jets and runways
too classy to have a White
Castle across the expressway
from it.
They have cornfields.
Even closer now.
The houses larger with matching
sheds and identical roves.
Almost all have pools, makes
sense for a windy city like
Chi-town.
Some are covered and
nasty for the impending
winter. Playsets and driveways,
minimal trees.
I wonder if the children
ever get scared when
the shadow of a 700 series
darkens their windows and slides.
If they look up and feel warmth
in their Children’s Place pants,
throwing their ice cream to the
wind and catapulting into
the comfort of their father’s
arms and then
write about it 13 years
later after they get off that plane.
“Thank you for flying with us
today, please come back and
see us soon.”
A desperate cry for profit
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 5:45 AM UTC
What is love?
Murasaki would say it was an obligation,
a sort of duty
where the rules
say to bury one’s emotions
and succumb to the overpowering ***
Mian Mian embraces the sexuality
of her culture. Arguing that love
is the force behind drugs and emotion.
It is not the government’s obligation
to dictate the author’s form of rules
on writing a novel that serves its own duty.
How does Black Jade feel about her duty?
Despite her lover’s sexuality
and his matriarch’s ruling
of marrying well even if he does love
her, the family cares more of their obligation
then of their prized sons emotions.
Coco lived by her emotions.
The sickness of Tian not her duty
as it would have been in the old days. Lui’s obligation
to turn in Shiba overruled by rough ***
and her quest for painful love
in a time that disregards all form of rule.
Peony was one who broke the rules
but was rewarded for it. Unless it’s Peony #2 because her emotions
got the best of her when she fell in love
at the wrong time. It was not her duty
to see the play nor feel anything ******
in the Three Wives Commentary; this, her obligation.
Was it Abe Sada’s obligation
to castrate her lover and make her own rules?
Madame Mao too knew all about ***
and succumbed to her emotions
when her duty
was no longer to love.
From emotional red chambers with rules
on obligatory *** the cycle of East Asian
love patterns has yet to fulfill its duty.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 5:16 AM UTC
A grain of sand.
a lifeless, heartless
insignificant grain of sand.
undisturbed for so many years.
Complacent in its spot
with the others.
A few friends for company,
even a lover for those cold nights.
One day
the ground starts trembling,
monstrous roars of beasts
pierce all complacency.
A stampede and the grain of sand
is lost.
Cold, disturbed.
Where is she?
What does it matter,
she’s still insignificant.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:13 PM UTC
You would think that after
shedding so many tears
and filling so many
notebooks with ink
that the supply would eventually run out.
But that’s life I suppose.
The highs and lows
so artistically placed
so that the other is creeping
right around the bend
when it seems as though
the now will never end.
I would like to say that
I could use a bend right about now…
but I don’t even know what
side I’m on.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 8:20 AM UTC