making love should be effortless,
like sand ebbing through achy fingers.
floating upon pillows made of feathers
and fairies.
making love should be steady, yet
untamed. like forest fires that lick
and clean branches,
kissing the trees with ashy goodbyes.
making love should be heartbreaking,
like the taste of salt with no warning,
the crushing of bones underneath
the ideas of love, and lust, and lost.

making love should be like it is with you & i,
your fingers in my hair, your stubble upon my *******,
your arms enclosing me, never letting me go.
making love should always be like it is with you & i,
the quick, the slow, the kisses, the moans,
the sweet and salty veins sprouting,
covering us in nothing but sadness, wanting.

making love should be everything, and completely nothing.

he slammed his cup on the counter  
not to get anyone’s attention
though his cup was empty  
I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes  
of course they were bloodshot  
and of course he stank of nicotine
and of truth that he said could not be found
in the bottom of that coffee cup or bottle of gin  
though he ****** up both  like…
hell, I can’t compare it to anything  
and he would think a simile was a waste of words
he told me of a lover he once had, Elisa  
with hair so long she sat on it  
and a thirst as ravenous as his  
which led her to an alley in South Chicago
where the ***** or the H put her to sleep
for good, and how he buried her in Peoria
in a hard freeze, beside her brother
who got killed in Phu Bai, by “friendly fire”
but Bukowski laughed through his tears
when he heard that ****, “friendly fire”
and he filled his glass again,
with Bourbon I guess--I wasn’t at  Elisa’s
numb mother’s house that day
and when he lost another ****** lover
to a drunk driver, he didn’t say anything about irony  
just said, ****, it hurts to be close  
and he didn’t trust this happiness ****
because it didn’t last, but pain, hell,
you can count on that ******* and if he leaves,
you can make some up on your own…  
the waitress filled our cups to the top
so there was no space for the cream  
I sipped slowly to make room
he took a swig that had to scald his tongue
but I could not tell, for he was already on the death
of lover number three, sitting there with me  
waiting for him to stop the foul flow of truth

Abandoned by comfort
Welcomed by nothing
Seeing the future
Hating the outcome

Can't hear the screams
Or feel the pain
I walked on water
All I did was sink

i am not just my *******, the
breath of my eyelashes, the curve
of my hips, the gasps i take between
*****.
i am brave, intelligent, wild, i am the
horse that runs through tall grass,
the cracks between sidewalks that sprout
weeds.
do not say i am just a “woman,”
i am hell on a leash, and i will be
released.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Ben a homeless veteran of war, had a heart attack, fell from his wheelchair
and died and people stepped over him.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

A forest fire burned in Yosemite National park and Sierra Nevada destroying homes, and
threatening wildlife including 200 year old redwood trees.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Latonya lost her job, and in turn her apartment and in turn the custody
of her children.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Yu fellated a man in a sweaty brothel who was nearly four times her age.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plant leaked tons of radioactive fluid into the
Pacific.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

Syrian President Bashar al-Assad used chemical weapons on his own people.

While people talked about what Miley Cyrus was wearing

by yoko molotov and scott sharp

hey.
it would mean a lot to me if you came out tonight, i miss you.
I feel ****** that we havent had a lot of time together.
that our lives have grown so far in other realms
maybe its time we drink and sing and
shout for the good times the
old times and of course
the new times my
dearest pal and
best droog-
yours.
cb
B
I might
This week
Has been a spell
Of stress and masochism
My **** hurts. And my brain.
Karaoke is a great relief in many ways
However, it’s often too loud and crowded
For hangs and ketchup. The backdoor is more seductive
Lets meet at the table outside with wings, beer, and jolly bellies
Lets tell war stories. Lets milk the clock. Lets party like it’s 2003. Let’s puke.