i arrived in that nightclub  
like an expired simile  
suffering from wanderlust  
and athlete’s doubt,  
steeped in banana daiquiris  
& debt-shaped libido.

they were playing music  
that sounded like  
an ocelot being exorcised  
in 11/8 time.  
my spine, a seismograph  
for regret.

then—  
Pax.
a humuhumunukunukuapuaʻa of a man,  
angular, paradoxical,  
a rorschach of masculinity
Masc in the biblical sense—
he wasn't trying to look at me.
he was waiting for me to stare
it was as if salsa had been conjured
solely for his gait.

he never approached.
he summoned.
and i complied.

his hand caught mine
like it was the end of a sentence,
no hesitation—
just a command.

we spun together—
hips,
bodies,
gravity.
his chest brushed mine
like an open invitation,
and I could smell it—
that heat,
the one that belonged to him
and no one else.

i was dizzy with his geometry.
hie arms around my neck
lips behind my ear
“bathroom.
now.”
it wasn’t a question.

he pressed me against cold tile—
that calcareous crucible—
with the kind of care
you’d reserve for surgical desecration.

his bra slipped off like a seraphic harness
revealing twin ectomorphic silhouettes,
orbs of human dough & statuesque cherries
androgyne relics kissed by friction
and gleaming like succulent punctuation.

he didn’t ask for permission.
he simply took.
his hands gripped my thighs,
lifting me,
guiding me to where his body needed me,
where I belonged.

my ****, a divining rod;
my thoughts, disheveled rooks
cawing in circles around his scent,
which was
old books,
new sin,
and the crushed-strawberry smudge of something surgical.
i didn't speak—
i just let him
consume.
my blood said: follow.
my pelvis said: now.

his words were no longer soft.
they came sharp,
*****,
like orders
more than a plea—
"You're mine."
and he wasn’t wrong.
he already had me

he threw his leg around mine
like punctuation at the end of a feral sentence.
we weren’t dancing—
we were ritualing.

he climbed onto me
like scaffolding,
pressed his whole glistening weight
against my need.
his *****, volcanic—
gripping my **** like
a molten vacuum
pulling the *** out of me
like he’d prayed for it
and the gods obliged.

i spilled.
big, hot, criminal.
a gluey slick,
it oozed,
thick and slow,
like molasses in a heatwave,
a lazy curl of liquid fate,
drenched in warmth
and too much need.

it sat in him—
clung like clingfilm
but thicker,
substantial,
like it planned to colonize,
a thick stretch of something primal,
not running,
but anchoring,
surrendering into him
like debt into bankruptcy

he smirked, exhaled,
and said—
in a voice like jazz bruised by bourbon:

“next week—
same time,
more ruin.”

there was a boy(unbuttoned spine: tin)
             who sang bullets through teeth,        
             cough-stitched into boots—                      
             (mother would’ve                never                
                            known him in pieces)    

& you—  
             mustard! you crawling  
                    godless     yellowing yawn-    
             (you churchless warlock vapor  
             shuffling up his gullet  
                         like a borrowed hymn)        

he——  
             (let’s name him no one)              
             swallowed lungs like spoiled pears,      
             vines of cough wrapped around      
                                 his windpipe’s piano      
             & the keys stopped—one by one—        

click

     the music changed  

                                    —not into silence—    
             but into smoke  
                       a wordless opera:  
                 gasp.gasp.gasp.gone    

his eyes were  
             paperboats  
                       folding inward  

& the dirt applauded softly  
       in clouds of not-quiet  
          (a whistle wheezing past his ear)  
                 sergeant said: “keep walking”  
               but his knees said: “no more poems.”    

         (there are no metaphors in hell, just  
                 uniforms  
                         without skin)

:he dreamt once of  
                             lemons
     & a girl who     never      existed, probably—

he tried  
             to say goodbye  
    but found only  
               ash vowels &  
                        consonants with no  
                               consonance  

    (what’s the word for a throat  
               forgetting how to  
                            be?)    

his body un-wrote itself backwards      
             while the war kept  
                          typing    

                                      click
                        
                                            click
                                
             .                                                                                                                                              

             .                                                                                                                                

             .    

& the smoke  
             did not apologize.

I am
when I drink
a birthmark
removal
expert
or an angel
privately sad
who prolongs
with a rabbit
held together
by grief
a whale’s
insomnia…

Boredom is a mirror’s god.

Pianos
in the winter
are cruel.

The house with the terrible smell of cow's blood,
And their hot manure, which would stain the house of my childhood,
Where such things happened,
Horrifying colorful images.
And not the kind that comes from Doris Lessing's words,
This flesh is not for charity,
It’s livestock for sale at the market,
Impossible to regulate...
The dried pork my grandmother saved for me,
Which I never eat,
A bite of my lunch.
Wrapped in newspaper, a good piece,
Redirected to the neighbors,
Little young calves,
With eyes wide open,
Their meat cooked with herbs,
Their skins salted,
Their cries hide in my heart,
Death is coming,
You turn into a dead corpse,
But their eyes stare in vain,
And the feet of the calves hop involuntarily,
It's a sad morning, says my uncle,
And with peasant manners, he smokes a cigarette.
The corpse, loaded into the car,
Dragged for sale,
My uncle brings water from the well,
Drinks it like a pig, burping,
I feel nauseous,
And I wonder where the black birds are,
But my uncle doesn't die in an accident,
The days repeat,
The pear trees that cover the yard with their branches,
The window panes reflect their shadows,
Why doesn't my heart stop,
During the ball game?
Weighed down by someone else’s sin,
I approach the ******* stone,
While my uncle urinates under the tree.

Another new birth,

another programmed clotting --


of exploded cells.

cows and horses
the dog barking at the tv
no westerns tonight...

the DEA at my door
want to know if i can point them
in the right direction??? ...

a tip jar at the liquor store
and the mother- in -law is moving in...

a passing fire truck with someone
in a Mickey Mouse costume waving


AND YOU CALL!!!

I pick up this Bic
I used to pick up one
that made me sick

Years and years have floated by
like so many clouds on the wind

this burning thirst
year after year
has only gotten worse

Gnawing at my brain
like a ******
on a fresh piece of birch

Freedom isn't free
there's a price to pay
I'll pay it all