I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR
is what your eyes are screaming at me,
pencil scratching across page as
fingers stampede, stationary upon
your desk. don't you
know what you're doing to me,
with your Catholic faith and
artesian frame?? I swear
to your god (for I am
Protestant and yes they are different)
that you will ruin me and I swear
to my god that I would

love nothing better for in
your unmaking of me there is
a subtle art,
not an artifice, and it is
this which I adore, possibly
even more than I adore thee.

I wish I could write a poem about
how clever and interesting and utterly
human you are; alas, I cannot.
all I can think about is your
******* hair, an entropic tangle of
dying cells and pigment catching solar
rays and background radiation in
every ******* selfy you take and
I am sorry that is what I fixate upon
but how could I not?

my apologies, for usually I am
a far better man than this, yet
even then you are
a far better man than I and
I commend you for it.

stay tubular, young lad.

stay ******* tubular.

bandanna knotted in your hair,
you are
eloquently attired, and almost
always a little late; it ok.
you aren't
beholden
to standard notions of
punctuality or
Americanized dreams of
mechanistic triumph over the
virus of Nature.
you are more and less and equal to
the sum of your
constituent parts and
you are exquisite.

I always hated art.

as a kid, the forty-five minutes
every ******* Friday and Wednesday was
excoriating. even though
the other kids adored
fondling their fingers through paint
swatches, it just wasn't for me.
until I met you, my muse and my
canvas, your shuddering skin a
cream tableaux for my
lust to reimagine
pointillism cubism impressionism
le renaissance haut
in scratches and bites and
streaks of saliva criss-crossing
goosebumped skin.

I always hated art.

she smiled at me
through lab goggles and
a light, latex-gloved touch;
I blushed, looking down at my feet;
I caught sight of
the unseemly lump of
flesh on the table between us.
strange, that this dissection was so
[Russian Nesting Dolls]
meta; two brains with bodies
dissecting one without.
technicolor dreams drenched in
formaldehyde leaching out
upon the stainless steel table
parietal lobe corpus callosum Brocke's
area god I think I love
this girl I

Ashes 2 Ashes

such an inane phrase.
combustion is an irreversible process,
and you can't burn ashes for a
second time like you did to me.
you razed me like I was
aught but another Carthage in the
Punic Wars of your myriad
romances and affairs and dalliances and
flings;
why can't I stop wondering
which I was??

dust to dust

light of my life, fire of my *****,
you deceiver of women and
seducer of the same.
you have
never
made a wise choice when you
followed your instincts,
yet, god help me, I find you
adorable lovely handsome.
Queens is your origin and
Manhattan your playground;
isn't it crazy that in a city of
eight million people
I can't seem to escape you?