He texted me seven minutes after I had decided
to start calling my sexuality Coyote, because it was growling
half-way through a book about ***** feminists
and the hair on his chest had undomesticated me in a way that
the thinking part of my brain didn't even believe was possible
but reliving the sound of his laughter as he whispered in my ear
to climb on top made me travel through space and time
to kiss Lilith on the mouth and take Medusa home for one night.

I don’t sleep with random boys.

The truth is,
I am lazy. I won’t feel
like washing my sheets. And I know
within twenty-four, I won’t be
able to sleep. Thinking of the
radical chemical compounds
soaked into my Egyptian cotton.
like a foreigner’s blood on un-sacrificed holy land.

But even if I did, I think
it might offend.
Because I would remember your name
only five years down the road,
driving down packed dirt on autopilot where
twenty minutes ago I made a mental list
of all the men I have slept with and
you burst into my recollection with an adrenal jolt of
demanding acknowledgement.

and I’ll laugh to myself because
Society tells me I should be (ashamed).

She would put on lipstick at midnight,
because her favorite show was on
and she always liked to look good when she was appreciating something
as if the novelty could be French-kissed unexpectedly.

Her lunches were always spent alone,
with a used book from an online vendor
and her throat would always close up when someone asked to join
as if they had interrupted her touching herself.

She had a self-designated seat on the public tram,
because slave laborers are always penny-pinchers
and she needed to close her eyes in order to see the light dance
as if she were a paradoxical vampire feeding off the sun.

You know, she was always forgetting the past,
never knowing how everyone else could remember so much
and she would roll around cold liquid in her mouth
as if life was too surreal to not look pensive.

She never understood what people did with their time.
She never understood how they could fit more pieces into their 8 by 4 plots.
She never understood how classical music could not move them to tears.

I almost fell out of love
when I read your Tragedy and discovered your
Belief that poetry was no art.

That’s about the time I understood how
you could
stomach Kant. Your love of Dionysus.
You were
always so strict for someone with such
feeling.
Existing somewhere.
Alone in your dialectic irony.

But those were the early years,
before your father went insane
and you ran from a lifetime, with a
craned neck
only to slam into the shadow of your own Madness
atop that peak,
where you gave birth to millions of
dancing stars.

(Or was it millions of little sheep?)

I found myself meandering through churches of
political discussions-debating the ever stale rights
of each citizen dissolving into the crowded bars. Clinking
glasses with more feeling than their fingers on holiday.

Someone began to say “Life is…” and I stopped them
right there, because who wants to sit for bad ideas when
today is really for travelling to heaven and
I'm sick of sinking into the landscape. I am
already a hundred miles through the cracks in
the world; we’re really all just piecemeal bizarre
occurrences.

You appeared in my passengers’ seat while
before I thought I was just thinking about taking
a road trip to you and all this time I've been
driving through New York City with God.

For the first fifteen minutes all you could comment on the
was how shallow the lights seemed and I've got to
be honest, I never heard the rest because I was too busy
trying to decipher the Latin phrases that overwhelmed
your skin. Next thing I know, you had tears on your chin-
talking about how you wished all women could understand that
their blood is the same which pumps through wild geese.