wrestling with metaphorical hard-ons

for money for money for money


and it
                    as a mean to be mean

I am ****** in the long run
for wanting the in-between

I find my self stressing and scatting,
foaming

and spent

for a non-existent God
I cannot repent
I cannot repent

for selling my soul
                                   to Satan (the great)

at eight years old

I want to steal

the things

I want

like money
like knowledge
like talents

too hard
too hard

8 AM

light

8 PM

dark

repeat
onononononono

I squint down into the empty bottle of wine

"Is a relief from embarrassment here?"

No.

Shame.

Swirling what's left,
I drink to poor memories.
I drink to forget.
I drink to soothe.

In a brutish manner
I raise a glass to Billy Collins
my lips stained purple,

from

seven ninety-nine ($)
dark Chilean wine

that is infused with strawberries, cherries,
and do I detect the taste of…alcohol?

My packaged delights, basics from Safeway.
Green, red, white vegetables with origins unknown
had clattered, frozen, out of a bag, not fifteen minutes ago

I snap the bag with a satisfying thwack,
the chicken is ready from a microwaved attack.

But the noodles, oh, so sweet.
Plump little bags of cheese and oh--brie!
Sweet no matter what sauce, I drown and I savor

Wrapping the package with greens and with flavor.

I curl up in repose, stuffed to the brim
swirling my glass, getting seconds again.

Unwish readings, rapists, unrepairable rips,

I wish to undo
the space between
me(                                          )you

and where I once wrapped my thighs around your hips
and the whistling trill of my sleeping breath once felt a home in the



cavernous space




between your head and your breast

and I
and I

found shelter in your curls,
pulling until they escaped from me, undone.

Mussed love, entombed in the perfumed past of white rooms by untouched oceans
and unsullied books, too occupied by the wonder found in each other, each others' bodies

and I lie awake with the ghosts
in haunting of my own accord and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window, waiting

I wonder
I wonder

could you need me, still,

now?

Her blue eyes--used to shake
those roars turned into a hot, low chuff

Now it's her head that shakes
Now it's her hands that shake

Cracked, peeling palms
she picks with worry,

no        No          no

-----don't do that-----

Wiping away tears like she used to, her voice crackling on the phone. She hides.

I'm am too young to help her.
I have an empty head and empty pockets,
shrugging with pleading eyes, I'm sorry.

So sorry.

Her mother
Her sister

**Her