my ***** throb this morning
the way they do when a girl
demands to sleep in my bed
but refuses to cup them with
her hand or mouth or a com-
bination or rotation of both.
they hold pent-up anger or
cruelty, energy or love and
destruction that will be wa-
sted into the toilet bowl, or
a bed's sheet, or kleenex or
all three of these before 12.

i showed up at your work with a bottle of wine
and stood in the parking lot for two hours
with your skin in my thoughts like
sin and sun-heat on a garden of blacktop
twisted my ankle, leaning into the wind
with a sign that read
'i feel alright
i won't stop dreaming
i feel okay'
until you quit your job with a screech
took off your apron, spinning into bright oxygen
and crashed into my majestic arms
showed me your legs in a sundress

we ran and danced on a july breeze
and sang to each other the songs our souls
kept secret for so long until
your father and brother found us
and dislocated your arm when
you said you loved me like
the wind at night

i repaired you with kisses and tears
the next night when you snuck out
and we swayed to jazz in the dark on
the old bridge a mile behind your house
as the moon wept radiant heat
we giggled and smashed windows
the trees exploded with laughter through
the canyons

you caressed me with your eyes
this morning between shrieks of tightness,
your father and brother long forgotten
in a field in our hometown,
as you wipe last night's lipstick from
my throat and chest and stomach
your heated cheek-flesh screams whispers
of being free as you lap me

and i drink milk from a cold glass.

you told me i was an eagle
simple as that, i believed you
tied my shoelaces together
took off my shirt
jumped from the roof with you
holding my hand

you told me i was unstoppable
so i never gave up
still making propellers
out of paper mache and
over-watering the succulents

you told me you loved me
with your fingernails in
the soft young flesh of my back
you swore you weren't a liar
but we were both drunk
you wrote your phone number on my cast

you told me once
that i was a big engine
and i took it to my powerless heart
did some body work
ran screaming through the streets
roaring naked at midnight
perched on a solar eclipse
singing sinatra to a cat.

He was a frat guy.
he spoke loud at the dinner table across the room and I listened
Someone touched him as a young boy
And daddy's expectations and denial of homosexuality fueled his sons speech
Speaking hypothetically about the colloquial term for jacking off two dudes at once and if that name increased quantitavely what then was the appropriate term for jacking off 100 dudes


His friends laughed

when i recite my poems
i don't shout
or laugh
i'm not asking your opinion
seeking your approval
or challenging your belief
in god

i don't even have them
memorized
and don't want to
i'm punching out words and feelings
from a page
like the grand marshall
of a ticker tape parade

i'm so tired of poetry slams
where dignity is stomped dry
and teenaged lesbians try
to change the collective consciousness
of the older generation

there's nothing original
in poetry anymore
every black kid has a poem
which starts with him holding
a black and white photo and
the lines on his great grandmother's face
as she sweeps the yard with a broom
made out of a bundle of twigs
and no shoes on her feet
and he's put it in a book
or won some scholarship with it

while every feminist ****
and post-pubescent *** have
heart-wrenching tales
set to the soundtrack of a john hughes flick
of a time when they were
mistaken for a man or
forced to **** a fat man's ****
in an alleyway somewhere
in Cleveland or Boston
someplace where the cold
pavement left their knees bruised

what if i told you
we've all ****** his ****
and nearly all of us hated it
we've all shoveled ****
and your sob story
doesn't make us cry

i still shake and crumple
the paper
no matter how many times
i read on stage
i still mumble and cough
and spill my drink
but maybe that's why
i've never
won
a
prize.

i wish i was a black poet
or a woman with a twisted ankle
even a teenager filled with brooding angst
because then my poems would hold more weight
people would listen
i could recite them with my eyes closed
brow furrowed, talking with fists
my throat swollen with passion
i'd get applause -- an ovation even
for spitting on the microphone at poetry night
blowing the roof off
destroying walls
seeing all rooms at once
instead of despondent laughter
in an empty bar
the clinking of glasses
and the obligatory whisky after.

but i'm white
and only in my twenties
living in a vaccuum
nothing terrible has ever happened to me
sure, i have problems

but who the **** wants to hear about
not learning how to tie my shoes until i was 9?

quitting every sport, not because i was bad
merely because i wasn't the greatest to ever play
and no longer saw the point?

adhd and couch surfing in new orleans?

how hard it was to learn to roll the perfect joint
when i was 17?

the fact that i had an itchy ******* last month
but switched to organic detergent
now it's a field of velvet daffodils down there?

no one's posting youtube videos about
doing laundry on a tuesday
not meeting a pretty girl at the laundromat
instead teaching a mexican boy multiplication tables
and a couple jokes, then leaving with
half your clothes still ***** because you gave the boy
the rest of your change to buy a girl he likes
a pack of her favorite gum tomorrow
or
losing your cell phone until thursday afternoon
then the bill collectors start calling

i have good credit
i bought a used honda last year
at a good interest rate, i haven't missed a payment
i'm never bothered at airport security
i live alone, take my coffee black
or with cream and sugar
write checks and balance a budget
on sunday mornings
hate cats, never vote or testify in court
i went swimming yesterday
laid down in thatched grass, alone
don't smoke anymore
quit drinking too
don't own a boat
time moves so fast
i cook, sometimes with wine
friends seldom visit
i stand on the balcony, naked
my house is quiet
except when it isn't
and jazz floods the kitchen
i dance through the hallway
with an invisible lover
and she drifts silently away
uninterested in my melancholy poem
as i slosh sweetened tea on my bare chest
i hang on
she hangs up