My life will be one of those magic tricks
where I ask you to
"pick a card, any card,"
and you do and you memorize it and put it back in the pile
and I shuffle the deck and try to give you the right card
but I don't know how to do this trick,
and even though there's a tiny chance I could hold up your card,
I never get it right.
That's what my life will be like
and I don't know how I feel about that
or even how I should feel about that
and I don't know what to do about it.

So where does she go when
she's been fingered and drugged,
abused and sexed up?
That's right, the end of the bar
where they'll never find her,
let alone kiss her.*

Tucked behind her right ear,
blonde hair fell as if a tear
from cheek to chin,
bowling ball to bowling pin;
stacked at the other end.

This poem is for you long-blonde-hair-behind-the-bar-girl, written down by paper and pen.

Your quilted jacket,
leather in material,
won't keep the cold out;
only a white-stick-arm
will warm, guide and
ignite you home.

Fill the wardrobes back up again        
with hangers plucked and picked from the
carpeted floor.
                        Lay the lover down amongst the sheets
                        only the whisper sweet thoughts and memos and
                        kind words in low tones
                        into her ear.
                                           Kiss her neck and grace the thigh,
                                           build
                                           up
                                           the
                                           courage
                                           to
                                           last
                                                 all
                                                    night.

Splitting a boxed wine
right down the center
staining cotton shirts
sentences ending in hiccups
blood boiling from
growing up

I am forgotten,
As my footprints
melt
in the snow.

I don’t come home some nights
And my brother tells me when I don’t
As if I didn’t know that I did that
He asks me why

I always answer
Just stayed with a friend

But he knows what drinking all night looks like
I remind him of his mother

Weekend mornings
When he’s still home
I walk in smelling like suicide

He talks for hours
Nonstop
His hands hold things I can’t see
“This is how I am going to squeeze the toothpaste from now on
Are you mad at me from doing it wrong?
Hey I wish I was strong like you
It’s hard to help dad when you’re not here
I need you to buy name stickers for the Christmas presents
This is your shirt but dad doesn’t have enough money for laundry
I made too many sandwiches today
I ate them all
My best friend Louise farts a lot
It’s funny when he farts
Do you have to work today?
I know how it feels
Work is so ******* hard”

Sometimes I feel so unprepared
Feels like a ricochet for wrists
Axes chopping bricks
But yesterday
I fist fought a mountain
Some of us get practice

I tell him to relax
To bug his sister

“I love you,” he says
“When you become a writer can I draw pictures for your books?
I wake up some nights and hear you type
Mom used to stay up all night too
I don’t ever want her to come home
Are you going to move out soon?
Before or after Christmas?
Before or after my birthday?
Will you still get me presents?”

He is a one man search party
And has found most of the answers

In the end
The answer is always
Yes
The answer is always
I love you too

I don't want to be in your bed sheets.
And I don't want you tangled up in mine,
I made my bed this morning.
I don't want you in my bed sheets,
Tangled up in them
Entwined
As if they were the vines of lust,
Binding you to the mirage of Us
The vines of love are coated with dust,
It's dangerous.
It's slippery.
Wet like the ocean as soon as you dip in me.
They say the ocean is deep and within it lie secrets...
Kiss me farewell and dive to the bottom of the seven seas just to keep it.
I don't want to go swimming in my bed sheets.
Then they'd be drenched from the high tides of expired desire
I don't want to wring out the deception that you perspire
I don't want to make my bed again.
My laundry is clean.

I've been meaning to ask you-
What do you think about a ménage à trois
Mary Jane
And You and Moi.
And
I can envision
You without that shirt.
And you without those draws.
And me without these *******
And me without this bra.
And me on top of you
And you on top of moi
And me screaming your name.
And your eyes glazed in awe.
Meanwhile
My tongue leaves a wet trail along the edge of the blunt,
Your eyes leave a wet trail on my lips.
Lets be upfront
I'll tell you this
The blunt isn't the only thing wet and sticky
And ready to be blitzed.