i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

My mother first wrote it
on my birth cert
by street name, by nature.

“You shouldn’t do that,
you’re no race horse.”
Then why am I running, running

perpetually
carrying little men who kick me.
Filling the hole won’t fill me.

If I eat sugar, orange candy
and lots of honey
I won’t hear the boys be mean to me.

he's
tripping, but not
coerced by gravity;
rather a Molotov cocktail of
endorphins lobbed straight at his
prefrontal cortex.
some find this
distasteful,
some find it
deplorable;
god help me,
I find it adorable.
(it's the only time he'll
admit he loves me)

1322

Floss won’t save you from an Abyss
But a Rope will—
Notwithstanding a Rope for a Souvenir
Is not beautiful—

But I tell you every step is a Trough—
And every stop a Well—
Now will you have the Rope or the Floss?
Prices reasonable—

I heard him closing the door.
He lives in the flat next to mine.
Some seconds later I was right behind my door,
trying to catch a glimpse of him in the night.
Trying to go unnoticed,
though I wished to get his attention somehow.
If I just was a little pretty
I would run to have a small talk with him now.
He was already gone,
but there was something driving me crazy;
His perfume was sneaking into my house
through the door lock, making me dizzy.
I got on my knees just to inhale deeply,
closing my eyes and feeling a growing desire.
Hand on my chest,
and my heart exploded into fire.
I get jealous of that tiny perfume drops,
because they end up touching your skin.
Oh, if only my lips could do it,
but there's an universe in between.
Imagine being next to you,
to that perfume and your own skin smell.
You got me kind of in love,
you got me under a spell.

How can I feel this way when I don't even know the guy?
I just don't know, but I want him to be mine.

The milk man died last week.  I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.

I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros.  I sold her a pack of silvers

once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously.  She hasn't come back

to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over.  The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.

I recently read a poem
Advising others to
Not fall in love with a poet
Most of you have probably read that poem
It was poem of the day
Just one week ago
And I have read it
Several times
But it wasn't until yesterday
When I realized
Just how much truth
Was seeped through
Jacqueline Flores' words
It wasn't until yesterday
When I was trying to find
The right way to describe my love
Compare his eyes to the ocean
His hair to sand
How he speaks
And so on
And so forth

And so it's true
Don't date a poet
Cause we watch
And we describe
Either colorfully
Or sparingly
We show the world
Through our own words
And we expose everything
Love, loss, hate, bitterness
EVERYTHING.
And if you can't deal with that
And appreciate that
Then don't date a poet.