Oh, to be a bear—
to eat and eat and eat, gorging yourself
on the fat of the land, until unrecognizable
in your own corpulence;
to just close your eyes and disappear,
a tumultuous season passing by as you dream.

It seems so unfair.
I could commit gluttony at dinner
yet, come morning, awaken
empty and needing.

How much time must transpire
between opening my eyes and closing them again
to be considered a new nap? Or have I succeeded
at one big sleep with brief intermissions
of disappointing wakefulness?
Some say it takes ten thousand hours
to practice a skill into mastery. I am
a student of the ursine arts. All I care
to do these days is hone this craft, still unable
to drift away for whole seasons.
A day or two may pass away, but I awaken
faced with all the reasons
I want to disappear. I close my eyes again.
Oh, to be a bear.

And how does a bear know
when the season is over,
when it is safe to open eyes once again?
How will I?

“A man will leave his father and his mother and he must stick to his wife and they must become one flesh.” A burning plagued my side and in her I found the reason why. Each morning as I stared at her picture, I thanked Him; and every night just the same. A complement, sculpted by the hand of God himself, it seemed, just for me—everything I needed, everything I never knew I wanted. Before I even truly knew her and was trying to pawn off my heart to someone else, it already ran away, leaping into her arms. It’s true what I've heard some men say: “The most precious possession that ever comes to a man in this world is a woman's heart”

I don’t believe in fate, yet it still feels that I was born to love her. Every event that has ever happened in my life, everything molded me into a character for her heart and only hers. She was never a trial, it was never a struggle coming to love her; simply natural, like day giving way to night. Not before long, we experienced a bonding of mind and heart, a grafting of two souls that not even the most skilled of surgeons could replicate. Although no one is perfect, there is nothing about her I would change. For centuries love has been captured in song, verse, canvas, and stone; I believe it is she and I that all these artists have been alluding to. After all, she is already the archetype, the ultimate beauty that these very artists could only dream of capturing. She is my reason for leaving behind father and mother, even myself and every previous course of action if so necessary. Without her, there is only a little bit of me left.

Yet here we are, distanced, paying the price for our untimely love. A shooting star streaked across the sky and I wished upon it. But I guess it does make a difference who you are because she’s still not here beside me. When not compared to her, this vision really is as magnificent as she said it would be. Thus, even after a failed wish, I watch the sky because I know the Universe is something that she finds intriguing. And maybe we’ll be gazing at the same star so, in some way, we’ll be nestled up there together—aflame like a blue dwarf with our love, instead of so distant like Pluto and the Sun. She is my world and now that she’s gone my heart has little left to stand on.

“Remember me when you get into your Kingdom,” pleaded an evildoer hung alongside Jesus. And it is this Kingdom which gives so many the strength to live and endure. But my heart keeps beating, white cells keep fighting, I keep persevering for her. The future will bring her to me again, I know it will. When I’m bent over like a tree beaten by the wind with not many years left of my life, she’ll still be a cherished rose garnishing my frayed limbs. A fragrant flower of exquisite color, such beauty it causes the heart to rejoice, so delicate and graceful yet mighty in power so as to keep life in these aged veins. Never in all my years will I live for anyone other than her; never in all my years will my love for her wane. “Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh”—she is my Paradise. She is worth the wait.

I.
In kindergarten arts & crafts,
a classmate called my project ugly.
Honestly, it looked like *****-
too much glue, not enough tissue paper.
But I should've torn up his artwork
instead of mine.

II.
In first grade, not knowing how
to process emotions, I knocked a girl over
when she kissed me on the cheek.
I also called her ugly. She wasn't
and I didn't wash my face for a week.
Her arm, broken from the accident,
was in a cast for much longer.

III.
In fourth grade, math stumped me.
I just couldn't master my times tables
like all the other kids. I broke
a pencil every time I felt stupid.
I seemed to have nothing but broken pencils.

IV.
In 1994, Jack Kirby died.
He created my favorite character, the Hulk.
I missed my opportunity to write him
a thank you letter for a hero I could relate to.

V.
In sixth grade, the school play:
it was just a small role but ****!
I wanted to be flawless, rehearsed relentlessly.
I got so nervous I threw up on stage.
Everyone laughed.
I earned the name Puke Face.

VI.
When I was 15, dad left us.
He explained that he found a new woman
to start a family that he could love.
He never apologized.
I punched a hole in my wall
wishing it was his face.

VII.
I should've tried to make more friends.
But I wanted more time for tv and comics.

VIII.
Despite diligent studying,
I failed yet another math test.
I don't remember hitting my locker that hard
but school fined me for destruction of property.

IX.
There will always be bullies.
I thought I deserved the teasing
so I didn't stand up to them.
Except one... sort of.
I killed his dog.

X.
My grandparents always wanted to see me.
I was just too busy or
they lived too far away.
Now I miss them and they're gone,
so much further away than they've ever been.

XI.
I don't think I saw my therapist long enough.

XII.
I should've started exercising sooner.

XIII.
Every time hunger ******* foresight
and I ate off a taco truck.
Would superman ever eat Kryptonite
because it smelled good in a corn tortilla?

XIV.
How long did members of the Manhattan Project
relish in their pride before the fallout of regret?
You are the most beautiful thing
I've ever been a part of.

XV.
Sometimes I just don't know how to cope.
Sometimes I just get angry.
I try meditation and yoga,
I try to find my Zen.
But like Bruce Banner something green
and ferocious rages inside of me.
Sometimes I need to smash.
Sometimes I need to feel your skull crack
beneath my knuckles.

XVI.
Rip the plaster off the walls of a temple,
it's still a temple, still holy
still beautiful.
I'm sorry for how these fists
try to redecorate your face, for the ugly
colors they try to paint over your beauty.
But maybe
if you weren't so **** beautiful
I could feel like I deserved you,
wouldn't be reminded of things I am not
every time you smile at me; maybe
if you were just a little bit damaged, I
wouldn't feel so broken.
I'm sorry for how my hands say I Love You.

XVII.
I should have never let you stay.
How did you love me?

XVIII.
I'm sorry that all I have are I'm-sorrys.

XIX.
We both thought you could make me a better human.

**.
I thought your tears could wash the monster off of me.

On a sunny winter day
when jackets held little heat
weather forecasts sent us up the mountain,
our first trip to the snow.
Only snowmen had liquefied like a western witch,
snow angels had fallen from grace.
We were left sloshing through sad puddles
ankle-deep in disdain for weathermen.
There were no laughs between us,
her demeanor solemn
as if in a funeral dirge for snowmen.
It was our last trip to the snow.
It was our last trip.

As she often expected,
I apologized for mistakes not my own.
Perhaps Channel 2 News was merely the prophet
forecasting an icy blizzard in her heart.
There was no shelter from her storm.

Death dons a new face
and the whole world hides behind a mask,
has quarantined itself indoors;
yet, each morning brings new mourning
as statistics continue to worsen.
The odds are in our favor
but every day I still read story
after story
after story
of those we’ve lost to this virus,
those whose odds were not favorable.
Sure, the odds are in my favor but what if
I’ve made a mistake,
my preventative measures not cautious enough?
Any day now, it could be my name in the paper,
just another number lost in the statistics.

I obsessively look out the window
keeping watch for an enemy impossible to see.
Like this old house, my body groans and creaks;
every new noise has me panicked
about an unwanted visitor.
There is always a thermometer in my mouth now,
the constant smell of bleach on every surface.

I have not felt my lover’s touch in months.
We promised to let nothing come between us—
all it’s taken is 125 nanometers.
There is a killer on the loose
600 times smaller than the diameter of a strand of hair,
her hair that used to be everywhere.
Her smell in my clothes, in my sheets,
the subtle reminders of her frequent presence
washed away with disinfectant.

We must stand apart now
to improve the odds we can live a long life
together when this is all over.
This is the happiest love I’ve ever known
and I stay awake at night worried
that I won’t make it long enough to hold you again,
that I’ll wake up in a lonely hospital room,
machines keeping me alive.
I stay awake at night worried
that all the bleach, all the Lysol,
all the masks the in world, all the distance
won’t make a difference.
I stay awake at night worried
that I will be prematurely plucked from this life
and never get the chance to love you
for as long or as much as you deserve.

Even on mute,
**** blares like air raid sirens
when roommates are home.
And as I look her up and down
up and down
up and down
suddenly I’m fearful my skull
isn’t soundproof, that the new age music
will be drowned out by the ****-smack
of our naked bodies colliding in my head.
I avoid eye contact, her figure burned into my retinas,
*** in the air taking it in down *******.
The class chants Ohm
but I only manage to moan ohmygod.

Perfect is such a strong word
but her designer yoga wear is a second skin
hugging in all the right places
a body that only has the right places
and when she bends over into a forward fold
there are no secrets.
Is it Bikram in here or is it just me?
Sweat flooding off my forehead, ujjiya out of control
as I struggle and creak from pose to pose
she flows into effortlessly. We
need to get tangled in each other,
move our asanas from the mat to the sheets.
If only I were Shiva, merely
to have extra hands to run over her flawless form.
I would give my salutations to the sun daily
if only for this view.
I may not be in love with yoga,
but **** do I love yoga class.
Namaste.

There is a tirade of words
unspoken, a cataclysm
of silence and I wish she’d speak,
offer just a few syllables
to quell my heart from
wallowing in doubt.
But this is war
with every unspoken word
a land mine I stumble over.

When suddenly, D-Day erupts-
a barrage of artillery exploding as
insults and blame. We’re both wounded,
bleeding from our egos,
vehemently exchanging bullets.
Even pacifists must fight to survive
when thrown into the trenches
and as I take aim, wonder
if winning the fight is worth the losses
as her heart enters my cross-hairs.

Adam was perfect, right?
God stretched out his big finger,
warned him directly about the Tree.
So Adam knew better than to indulge
in Forbidden Fruit.
Of course, it seemed so unfair--
the tree's resplendence was blinding.
Adam was weary with pacing,
shielding his eyes as he stared,
salivating as he said to himself:
“Adam, be strong; don’t give in.
You eat it, you die.”

And then here comes Eve-
her perfect ******* hanging out,
forbidden sugar on her breath,
nectar trickling down her chin.
Adam want to pounce,
lick the sinful juice of her body;
but he remained resilient to his God.
Except, when Eve turned to strut away,
her fine *** swayed sensually.
Adam just couldn't say no to *****,
indulged in sweet flesh.

And they were being watched.
Angels, in their great celestial domain,
got a glimpse of naked-*** Eve.
They looked around Heaven inquisitively
and pondered bitterly:
“We are divine, **** it.
Why does a silly garden get such fine *****?”
So the angels clawed off their halos,
ripped off their wings,
hurled themselves to Earth.

And that is why I quit reading the Bible.
Genesis told me all I need to know.
Your *** is better than Heaven.

This is not the first time
but it always feels as such,
always feels like the worst it could ever be.

It’s been so consistent lately
that I go to bed with the light on
just so I can see Death coming.
I stay up expectant of his arrival
like a child waiting for Santa
except I didn’t bake cookies.

It’s not that sort of visit.
But he’s not really coming, is he?
I’m not really dying am I?

I just don’t know anymore.
Logic has taken a vacation,
my heart has been left to the helm.
But he’s so preoccupied
banging furiously on the walls of his enclosure.
This ship is behaving erratically.

And then the alarm,
that **** infernal alarm.
A new days begins
when the previous never ended,
they just overlap, blur together
and I don’t know what’s really going on
or if I can continue living like this.

Don’t interpret that to mean I want to die.
But isn’t that what’s so awful about this?
You are just ripped from nothingness,
birthed into creation, never
allowed to make the choice to exist
but on days like this
you have to.

Let them commence
feasting. Plates overflowing with
potato salad, meaty hot wings, bones
****** dry;
mugs overflowing with beer
as they revere the TV like a pole
and dancer

Let them commence
exhibitions in masculinity.
Colored banners flying ostentatiously
as they beat their chests, grunting,
shouting with near ****** fervor
other men’s names.

Let them commence
fantasizing, to lust
for the field beneath their cleats
as the old pig skin is tossed around,
jersey worn proudly
as they pile themselves on top of
other men

Swear to god this is a true story.
Picture, like, the hottest woman you’ve ever seen-
like Natalie Portman in Black Swan
like Angelina Jolie in Gia
like a young Carrie Fisher in her slave Leia outfit
like any **** star you’ve ****** it to, honestly, any **** star
and there’s this woman, she’s standing bare-assed naked in front of me
swaying her hips slowly and making all these other women
look like Sloth from the Goonies, “Hey You Guuuys.”

Her hair, I just want to run my hands through it, messy it up,
yank it tight the way a jockey grips the reins when he’s about to come
in first place at the Kentucky Derby.
Bend her over, make her my Kentucky Derby.
Her hair, I **** you not, it looks just like yours.

Her eyes, I swear to god, in her eyes I could see the sunrise,
the sunset, the Aurora Borealis, the Perseid meteor shower,
and a lesbian **** on the beach in Cabo during Spring Break.
Honestly, if I couldn’t **** her brains out,
just staring into her eyes would’ve been a great consolation prize.
As a matter of fact, you and her have the same eyes.

Her smile, sweet Jesus, I wanted it.
I don’t just mean I wanted her lips wrapped around my *****.
I mean, her smile was enough to run to Kay Jewelers or Aaron Brothers
or wherever the ******* go to get a ***** a ring.
I wanted to love her the way police bullets love black bodies.
Believe it or not, her smile was exactly like yours.

And her ****, do I have to mention they’re the best pair I’ve ever seen?
God probably even patted himself on the back for those.
Of course, I haven’t seen yours yet…

I swear to god, she smelled like a waffle
and I don’t mean that cheap instant toaster ****,
I mean like home-made batter poured into a waffle iron,
topped with gobs of butter and expensive, top-shelf Vermont Maple
and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be ***** or hungry;
but either way, I want to dive right in.
Don’t give me that look, breakfast is my favorite meal.

So she takes her finger, brushes it against my lips,
and I would’ve ****** the Universe out of that finger,
but her touch is like gossamer.
She slowly dances her finger lower,
pauses at my chest, probably wanting to swirl it in some chest hair
but I don’t have any–this is probably confusing to her.
When she trails lower toward my belly button, it tickles
but in a good way, the way it tickles when you slide your finger into
the envelope that holds your Christmas bonus.
This woman is such a tease and I can’t help but think I should tie her up
and go down on her like a bulldog eating peanut butter.
She’s not even touching my **** yet and already I want to blow my load.
I’m afraid I just might when she finally gets there.
Her touch still so soft, so gentle, so delicate
like the extra-absorbency tissues I ******* into…

****!
It all makes sense now.
I’ve fallen asleep after ******* again.
See, I read this article about the benefits of ******* before bed
so these days I’m finding every excuse to take a nap.
Only imagine my surprise when I open my eyes.
I wasn’t imagining that delicate tickling sensation.
Sitting proudly atop my ***** *****
like a ******* prince charming ready to take down the dragon
is the biggest, meanest, ugliest, blackest black widow I’ve ever seen in my life.
I swear to god, we do something like lock eyes, I’m frozen in terror
and I shake my head furiously but the ****** bites me, anyway;
I scream that like poor sap Aron Rolston; only
it’s my ***** that get caught underneath the boulder.
I smack the **** out of that black widow.
But it’s too late.

And now, after all the venom
and the swelling and the oozing
and the scabbing,
well, my ***** isn’t as pretty as it used to be.
I wouldn’t, but others might even use the words
“ugly” and “deformed”.
To be honest, it breaks my heart.
And no ******’ kidding, now, my *****, well,
it looks just like you.

**! **! **!
Just look at him sitting there, waving, wishing everyone a merry Christmas as if he's actually some sort of magical deity seated on a golden throne. It’s a marvel how many mothers migrate to this mall en masse, endure ridiculous waits and wasted gas circling the parking lot over and over and over for the perfect spot closest to the entrance only to stand in yet another line full of all the other mothers with screaming children just to get a picture of their rotten progeny sitting on this man’s lap.
A stranger’s lap.
At least he got into character and grew a real beard. It wouldn't be surprising, though, if he's a ***** ******* or some other sort of ****** predator and his suit is extra-large, not to cover his corpulence, but to conceal his raging *******. Or maybe, just maybe, he really is the kid-loving grandfatherly type who never had kids of his own because his wife is barren or he's shooting blanks or something. Sure- they could adopt, but you can't raise a kid making minimum wage working as St. Nick in the mall. For the children’s sake I hope the truth is innocent. But I bet this bearded behemoth of an old man has pictures of every kid that ever sat on his lap lined up like wallpaper in his room and every night he beats off to them.
Oh, Timmy; oh, Billy; oh, Susie; oh, Patrick.
Oh, Oh, Oh!  

Hey, don't give me that look. I work in this mall and every day I see the rudest of people push, shove and insult their way through crowds like rabid animals frothing at the mouth ready to rip off the face of anyone daring to get in their way. While waiting in long check-out lines, these people complain that Jesus was even born because they had to go out and buy gifts for friends and family they don't even like. All the while, children are lied to about why they shouldn’t lie and instead behave all year long. Remember to engage in good deeds, not for the good of the deed, but in hopes of finding bigger presents under the tree. This is what the holidays are about, my friends. Christmas brings out the worst in people…

and I'm sure Santa's no exception.

There’s Batman, Superman;
a herd of Deadpools, Rorshach.
There’s a Borg, Darth Vader.
There’s Master Chief, a little sister, and Ryu.
There’s a ******* clad big breasted anime character I know nothing about
but would be open to learning.
From every universe, there are characters galore.
This is not Halloween, though.
A wonderland saturated in smiles and so much joy and cheer.
Yet, it’s not Christmas; but it is indeed a holiday—
a celebration of all things geeky.
The almighty comic book convention.

A sea of fans flood the floors,
locusts ready to devour every morsel of entertainment.
Everyone from casual readers
to those with a superhuman ability to retain every panel,
every iota of detail about their favorite hero universe.
There’s little boys and adults alike dressed as their hero;
the fan who wanted to join the Empire so badly
that he jumped out of his Death Star sheets and spent the last 8 months
painstakingly recreating storm trooper armor.
There’s women who like to dye their hair, cram cleavage into tight vinyl
and wield a sword so comic book geeks can drool over a fantasy.
You can find the rare print comic you’ve been scouring eBay for–
like Amazing Fantasy #15 that first features Spider-Man.
You can thank your favorite writer for issue number 29,
page 7, panel 3 because it changed your life.
You can shake the hand of the man that drew
the ***** belonging to your first crush;
catch the first preview of your favorite character
moving from small page to big screen.
Booth after booth after booth is a yet another world to get lost in.
At 4 o'clock is a meet and greet
with the actors from your favorite show based off a comic
Forget mouse ears and kiddie rides-
this is like ***, maybe better.
This is where dreams come true.

I came in costume, myself.
Before I left the house, I paced tracks into the carpet.
back and forth, back and forth in front of the mirror.
My hair needs to be perfect,
My smile perfect,
My clothes perfect.
Everything about my appearance needs to be perfect
The convention is the chance to be a work of art,
a way to be the most super of heroes, the most vile of villains,
or the most obscure.
A chance to be someone
you’re not but wish every day you could be.

It’s like I’m the invisible man,
no one recognizes this costume.
But I did this for me.
Today I get to be different.
Today I dressed up as someone you’ll never let me be.
I cosplayed as your lover.

In a DVD case but we only stream;
wrapped around a fork in the kitchen drawer;
in the cereal box;
in the pocket of a jacket it’s been too warm to wear;
in a sock;
floating in my water bottle;
trapped in the button release of my car’s sea belt;
snaking its way through the letters of my keyboard at work—
I find strands of my lover’s hair
everywhere, always perplexed by their travels.
Sometimes, I even find strands in my **** crack.
It’s always unnaturally long
embedded unnaturally deep
and I pull and pull like some magician
with his endless length of tied together handkerchiefs.

If I had trichophobia, these little surprises
would be unpleasant, jarring encounters.
But even in food, my lover’s hair is not cause for panic.
And while these appearances can be baffling,
I’m less perplexed about how they got here
than about how we got here.

Sometimes love is a hungry wolf,
I was the sacrifice to its appetite.
I cannot deny the despair of a heart broken
just one too many times. I was shattered.
Doubting my worth, I traveled to Vegas,
placed bets on never finding love again.
I don’t believe in gods or fate
but I cursed them as if they were listening.
I gave up.
Loneliness was my only partner.
I’d walk him to the park, push him on the swing.
There was tar over my eyes,
I saw only darkness and despair.

Against all odds,
someone with long hair wiped my eyes clean.
She made me lose by bets and I’m okay with that.
My loneliness wanders the park wondering where I went.
While I still don’t believe in gods or fate,
daily I thank them, anyway.
When strands of her hair present themselves
unexpectedly, I can only smile, gratefully.
Someone wants to be around me enough
that parts of them sneak into all facets of my life.
I still do not know how we got here.
But like a stray hair, love
can be found in the most unlikely of places.

Only when steam encroaches upon
my reflection, do I undress
making a ***** pile of underwear
and esteem at my feet, this ugliness
just a sweating blur in the mirror.
I break a nail trying to scratch you
out of my naked skin
as I step into the shower.
Against raw wounds water is acid,

burning like your scathing indifference.
Just an hour ago,
I had put my hand to my chest
but before I spoke, you
just unbuttoned my Levi’s,
said, “Never mention it.”
You took me in your mouth
feeding your hunger with my body,
****** me empty.

I cough up my disappointment
as the steam strangles me;

unlike your hands, leaves no bruise.
These tears were not joyous
yet you lapped them up, thirstily.
This is never the me I want
to give; it’s all you
ever take, laughing as you
spit
me
out

Black water always spirals
down the drain after being with you.
What is it that keeps bringing me back—
your filth
or the catharsis afterwards?

Perhaps it was my naïveté, hungry
to taste you, to bury itself deep
inside your skin, anticipated finding
home I never had before. But,

once I caught you on my tongue,
it was a car crash of flesh against
unready flesh. You tasted
of commissary slop, had the warmth
of iron prison bars.

You can love the art,
but not the artist
and she says she is fond of
everything I write. She is,
perhaps, even my biggest fan.
But what she really means is:
“Tell me again how I’m beautiful
in ways the other boys won’t.
Tell me again how you’ll be here,
no matter how much I hurt you.”

Unrequited love is the best muse, right?
If I can’t be what she wants,
at least an extension of me can.
Some days, though, I trample through gardens
hunting dandelions with heavy breaths
wishing for nothing to say.

With dreams of shaking God's hand
and strolling through paradise,
many are tempted to paths of divinity.
Reincarnation, though— not a creator—
lures me to dalliances with holiness

But not my rebirth.
Yours.

How I pray your death returns you
as a Blue Morpho butterfly for I
also dabble in insect collecting.
Finally, I could subdue you,
with pins restrain and mount you
like a trophy in my bedroom.

May my faith make you mine.

A cold pain sits heavy on my chest and off in the distance, I hear something like the like the howling of far-off wolves seeking to devour me. Even if it were a horde of rabid monsters, frothing at the mouth with a hunger for my body, I wouldn’t bother raising my arms in defense. In my chest is a hole the shape of your silhouette, the frayed edges of flesh dancing in the wind rushing through. For these tears, too I, would like to blame this wind, stirring up debris and stinging my eyes. But when I offered to share my heart with you, you ripped out what you deemed your portion and left me scraps, left me empty and alone. When we so often talked of running away, I thought it would be us together instead of just you from a love you faked. And now where am I to go without a partner along this path and only tatters of heart?

I still read through your old letters and songs like postcards of sights I’ve seen along this love, a chronicle of happiness I could visit like a temple. But unlike most travelers, I can’t return to those sights I yearn to see again. My temple has crumbled. How do I begin to sift through the pieces? What am I even looking for?

What little remains of my heart is unable to do its job. And so, this blood in my veins sits stagnant, fermenting into alcohol—a bitter cocktail of sadness, self-pity, anger, and traces of regret. Put my blood on tap and get drunk on my mistakes—one final gift I put on your altar. Although my temple has crumbled, I vowed to be a disciple until death. You were my everything and you took it all away.

Where are those hungry wolves? I open my arms. Dinner is served.

There is a difference between enjoying daylight
and simply being thankful it’s not dark.
But all too soon, the sky has feasted on the sun
and it feels as though its dinner came early.
How did the night creep up like this?
And now, even the shallowest darkness
feels like the deepest black hole;
too soon there is only darkness,
an oppressive emptiness,
a silence that sounds like a eulogy.

I’m tired.
I am so very tired.
Not from a lack of sleep
or due to a grueling exercise regimen.
I am collapsing under this armor.
My shield has grown too heavy for these arms.
I have swung this sword one too many times;
and as I weaken, my demons seem to get stronger.
There is scant energy left to shoulder
the weight of things my mind refuses to carry.

I am become a beehive.
The buzzing, so all consuming,
it bullies rational thoughts into silence.
I am trembling with movement under my skin,
the bees frantically crawling into all my empty space,
restless and eager to break free.
There is nothing but static.
I’m going to lose to such a small thing.
I’m going to break; I’m going to die.
I’m going to crack
open, I’m going to spill gooey-sticky out of my myself.
And it will not be sweet.
My honeycomb will be worthless,
nothing but a burdensome mess.

The headboard bangs
against the wall in a rhythm syncopated
to floorboards creaking, a backbeat
driving her passionate screams
of jubilee
of raw ecstasy
of primal pleasures.
She’s a one woman gospel choir
praising god more than I've ever heard in church.
Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!
She is filled, but not with Holy Spirit.
Foundations are being tested as knick-knacks
fall off the dresser, a crucifix
crashes to the floor
like it’s the second coming-
at this rate it might even be the third-
and now she speaks in tongues.

And I’m breaking a sweat, mouth parched

but I don’t dare go get a glass of water.
No, I just lay here, listening fervently
as the couple in the apartment next door
**** away into the apocalypse,
too ashamed of my loneliness
to even *******

Ram your hand down my throat like you’re stuffing a turkey (I am one, after all) and rip out my vocal cords. Tie them to some wood and play it like a guitar. Even out of tune, the music will spell out all the words of the emotions I never told you how I felt. There really is love in here, I swear; it’s just trapped under some fallen debris. Pound me in the head and knock some sense into me while trying to knock the love out of me. Maybe you’ll be able to see it sticking to the brain-matter flowing from my fractured skull (you always hit harder than you should). Listen, I deeply apologize for being your disappointment; I’m so ashamed that I let you down. I guess I ended up being the lover my mother raised me not to be. Here, to make it up and show some form of affection, I’ll gladly rip out my heart and put it in your hand. But you should probably wrap it in rice and seaweed and eat it like sushi. A meal is more filling than my love.
Just be aware of the risks that arise from consuming raw meat.

My heart is not
an ugly sweater knit
by a distant dying grandma;
yet once received, you simply
packed it away as food for moths
supposing a trip to Goodwill could be saved
when holiday parties request adornment in
something kitschy.

My heart is not
a sweater but I had hoped
to keep you warm

I.
There have been homes,
there will be homes,
but we called this Our Home.
Not even the most skilled surgeon,
the most gifted craftsman, nor talented artist
could fix that about us which was broken.
Now I scrub these walls with my tears
removing the stain of us like
prepping a corpse for a wake—
too soon strangers will trample
through our vacancy.

II.
Packing is the saddest of exercises—
the visible decomposing of our life together.  
What was our scent now reeks of formaldehyde;
these walls now house a funeral parlor,
cardboard boxes coffins to our past.
“Handle With Care” some are scrawled.
A fitting dirge.

III.
We are history
reduced to nothing
more than scattered
artifacts on Goodwill shelves.

Let the rabbits keep their
feet. How lucky could they be
if the rabbits lost them, anyway?
There is nothing ominous about crossing paths
with a black cat; although, my mouse
would tell you differently –if he could—
but he’s a mouse
that crossed paths with a black cat.
Do not fret over spilled salt
unless it’s on your plate. That’s hypertension.
Walking around ladders is just good OSHA procedure.
A broken mirror is nothing to fear
unless you’re picking up the pieces with your bare hands
or unless it shattered just by you looking at it.

I’ve always considered superstition silly
and superfluous stress. But you can bet
every blown out birthday candle or dandelion,
every shooting star, every rainbow, every fallen eyelash,
every dismantled turkey carcass I made a wish.

Have you ever desired something you couldn’t see
but you could feel?
Like maybe how Adam, laying out at night
looking up at the stars, couldn’t see Eve’s face—
he hadn’t yet even seen a woman, after all—
but he could feel
for that which he yearned,
felt the aching deep in his ribs.

I dared dream a dream of a woman.
Unlike Adam, I’ve seen women before; but
I couldn’t see this one. Yet, every time I closed my eyes
she visited me. I felt her.
And for her I yearned.
In some ways, sleeping was preferable
to waking, just to be saved the torment of loneliness.
For this dream woman I kept making wishes.
Only, now when I close my eyes she is not there.

I am afraid I am an unlucky man, now.
So, despite the silliness, I do all the things.
Desperately.
I carry a rabbit’s foot;
don’t own an umbrella lest it open inside accidentally;
cook turkeys often just to wish on their bones;
only season my food with pepper.
I’m careful walking down the sidewalk
just in case my mother’s back really is in danger;
terrified of the number immediately after 12;
almost faint holding my breath in tunnels.
I excessively feed birds in the park, hopeful
that they’ll **** on my head.

There are phrases often said in disaster,
when catastrophe strikes but at least you didn’t die:
look on the bright side, silver lining,
fortunate misfortune.
But what are the opposite terms?
To be so lucky that you’re met with misfortune?
What if luck is like a battery or a retirement fund
and once you use it all, it’s gone for good?

See, when I close my eyes, no longer
can I rendezvous with the woman in my dreams—
that’s not where she dwells, anymore.
Dream woman is now just woman, a reality
right next to me when I open my eyes.
I can reach out and touch her, reach out and love her.
I open my arms wide like snake jaws,
envelope her, gorge myself on her love.
And I am so afraid to let her go.
I am so afraid.
I am so afraid that the day we met
I used up all my good luck

I discovered a spider lurking in the corner
of my room. Yes, lurking--a word implying
criminal intent. These creatures are a clear and
present danger to my peace and well-being.
This is my room, **** it. Why can't
it just go back to where it came?

I read somewhere once, probably on the internet,
that Australia has something like eight million species
of spider; and most, if not all, are
so venomous that they can **** you with
just one glance. They just stalk in bushes,
in your shoes, and under the toilet seat.
Now, I've never befriended a spider, don't know
enough about them to dispute this information. But,
anything that looks like that can't be anything
except a threat to me and society.
I am extraordinarily uncomfortable. While I realize this
is not Australia and there is plenty open
earth between here are there, aren't they all
related? Aren't they all the same by blood?

Honestly, my first reaction to finding this trespasser
is to reach for a shoe, or hammer,
a gun, or a match and a gallon
of gasoline. Yes, that's right--gas and flame.
Light it all up, burn it all down.
I wouldn't call this arachnophobia; instead, a valid
response to a perceived threat. I love living
here but I can't let my room stand
to further the spider agenda now, can I?

However, lately I've been trying to be more
present, to practice this radical idea where I
think before acting. So, I'm trying to not
react so harshly to things that scare me,
to things I don't understand... like spiders.
Why should I be afraid, anyway? I know
what I've read but are they that dangerous?
No spider ever confronted me in the streets
and beat, or shanked, shot, or robbed me.
In fact, I can't even verify as to
whether even one has even bitten me. Maybe
mosquitoes are just giving them a bad rap.
And no spider certainly ever threatened to take
my job. Let's be honest. I would never
spin web. Have you seen how hard
they toil at that? And for minimum wage?

I still want to reach for some tool
of destruction; but to stay my hand,
I devise stories about my intruder. Humanize it.

Maybe he doesn't even want to be here.
Maybe he really wants to reside on the soil
of his birth, but civil war sent him
fleeing. Or he had to abandon home before
some bigger, scarier creatures knocked on his web.

Maybe he lost his job and he's out
looking for work but no one is hiring
and he needed to just stop and cry
because his web is just days from foreclosure.

Maybe he just has nowhere else to go
because his staunchly religious parents kicked him out
upon tragically discovering he's atheist; or worse, gay.

Maybe he is not even he. Maybe she
was born he but now identifies as she
and has been holding her bladder for hours
looking for a bathroom to use without all
of her spider kin going crazy over it.

Maybe she made a wrong turn while heading
to a march against an over-reaching patriarchy
or is look for an open Planned Parenthood.

Maybe she's vegan. Maybe I'm not in danger.
Maybe I'm not as desirable as I thought.

The possibilities are endless. Even if I don't
like spiders, even if I think they're monsters,
it's a lot harder to harm something when
you know it has a story. Maybe they
can be dangerous; but can't we all be
when threatened? This may just be a silly
poem about a spider, but I hope there's
a metaphor about something much bigger here somewhere.

How did we get here?
I don't mean:
Did we arrive with enough buffer
for the TSA to violate our bodies,
to rifle though our baggage like the gestapo
before the plane left the terminal?
I don't mean:
Did the train make it to the station on time?
I don't mean:
Did we get an Lyft
or somehow manage to hail a taxi?
I don't even mean to imply I'm that forgetful.
Clearly, we drove ourselves to this
but it feels like we did cartwheels
or somersaults-
something has left me winded, dizzy,
the ground falling away from me.

How did we get here?
Last night we spent in silent
passion, our skin doing the talking.
We awoke embraced, footprints of your kisses
still warm on my body;
but there were still no words,
we ate like it was wine and unleavened bread,
space for twelve between us.

How did we get here?
Not all that glimmers is gold-
our sparkle made a fool out of me.
You're already leaving.
But yesterday, I could swear you
were not just a visitor.

A Japanese practice of aesthetics,
broken pottery pieced back together
with golden lacquer, the shimmer
doing the opposite of obscuring repair;
the gold creating vein-like patterns that say,
“Look at me, I have survived!”
The philosophy is simple:
A damaged vessel is still beautiful;
a body that has broken
is not worthless
just because it is a body that has broken.

She and I believe in love
the way a Jew and a Christian believe
in God. But is it the same God?
Was this the same love?
Her love believes two bodies
must be complete before coming together.
My love stands ready with golden lacquer,
not present for just a complete whole,
but also the broken pieces,
the cracks in between.
That which is damaged is still beautiful.
Let’s learn to heal our faults
together and shimmer.
Look at us, we have survived!

But sometimes, no matter the effort,
interfaith just doesn’t work;
we did not survive
for no other reason than simply
a difference of belief.
And now there are new broken pieces,
the crimson weeping from fresh cracks
is not the gold I was looking for

On a sunny winter day
when jackets held little heat
weather forecasts sent us up the mountain,
our first trip to the snow.
Except snowmen had already melted like a western witch,
snow angels had fallen from grace.
We were left sloshing through sad puddles
ankle-deep in disdain for weathermen.

There were no laughs between us,
her demeanor solemn
as if in a funeral dirge for snowmen.
It was our last trip to the snow.
It was our last trip.

As she often expected,
I apologized for mistakes not my own.
But perhaps Channel 7 News was merely
forecasting an icy blizzard in her heart.
There was no shelter from her storm.

I have watched leaves die,
fall to the earth to be crunched underfoot,
trees left naked, waiting
for another season to dress them
only for the leaves to die again, ad nauseum.
And, yet, it is always winter
in my heart and my steps heavy
like trudging through snow.
But there is never any snow
--never a winter wonderland--
just cold shivers, a resistance
to moving on.

Can a thing have a ghost
if it was never a living, breathing thing?
I am haunted by us,
not just by you, but the equation of you and I.
I am besieged by specters,
not just traces of your skin on mine or
the taste of your lips on my tongue or
the sound of your laughter around every corner,
but even by my own laughter chasing yours.
My own smile is a ghost, now;
as is my sense of peace.
I can see your smile in the sunrise, still;
see our own faces replace those
of people holding hands and embracing
as if I am the ghost,
some cosmic ****** peeping in our own life.
And all too frequently I am on my knees
screaming into dark days,
except they all feel like dark days
and even darker nights.
I shout out to whatever power is listening
to just bring you back to me
or exorcise me of these ghosts.
Shouting so loudly, so earnestly
that my throat goes hoarse
and I can't speak for days.

I’m covered in bruises and scars.
I’m not supposed to talk about it, but
I’ve started my own fight club
beating myself up over what
could have been done differently.
Could I have just tried even harder?
Could I have given more than my everything?
Could I have done anything to save us?
I have a new black eye.

Deep down, I know there is no finger to point;
we are not an earthquake, there is no finding fault.
It was not my fault.
It was not your fault.
It was no one’s fault.
We were a thrift store puzzle.
A used thing. An abraded thing.
Pieces were missing, torn,
some just didn’t fit.
Our picture would never be complete
and that’s just how it is, sometimes.
Neither of us are to blame—I know this.

Yet, I still can’t shake the what-ifs,
the spirit of our good times.
I am cursed.
But even if there was a number to call,
some sort of agency or team to come to my rescue,
where would these ghostbusters even aim
their proton guns and how much of me
would they take with them?
Do I really want all the memories of us erased?
Would a spotless mind pour sunshine onto my winter?

If only Doc Brown would drive up in his DeLorean,
I wouldn’t question the impossibility of his offer.
Despair pairs well with improbable hope.
I would certainly take that ride, risk
getting struck by lightning,
slamming into a wall at 88mph,
going back in time over and over, if need be
all so I could learn how
to fix an us that couldn’t be repaired.

I hate your shoes,
the way you walk in them,
for how they put you in my way.
I hate your face.
I hate the sound of your breath before you speak;
I hate your voice and your language.
I hate how you spend your free time,
what you do in the privacy of your own home;
I hate you for not having a home.
I don’t care how often you bathe–
you’re *****, your smell disgusts me.
You disgust me.
I have no gavel or mastery of law
but **** right it’s my right
to judge you, judge you
not for the content of your character
but the content of melanin in your skin,
judge you for your father’s blood,
the sins of your children,
your womb and your lewdness,
your dreams and your waistline,
for the lovers you bring to bed.
I’ll burn down temples to share with you
the light of my God because
like you, yours is *****.
I will beat you ****** for the beliefs
that we do not have in common.
All men are not created equal,
you are beneath me.
I will judge you for your undeserved freedom.
This land is better off stripping the rights of all
than to allow the mistake of giving you any.
How dare you **** the blood for my land,
my children, my people.
I will do grotesque things in the name of hate.
I will do grotesque things in the name of purity.
And you need to be purified
and I hate you
because my God hates you.
Oh, you of little faith:
Repent! Or die.
There can be no peace
when sinners like you are so wrong.

She was a dazzling display
of gravity-defying daring and grace.
Soaring and contorting over our heads,
this dancer in the sky hypnotized.

I called her my little bird,
but she was both daredevil and magician.
I encouraged her to new heights,
to shake hands with the moon;
and if ever she fell, I would catch her

but I was nothing more than her safety net.
While I wanted her to love my embrace,
her goal was to never fall into my arms.

Somewhere between excitement and the ground,
a young boy loses control of his feet.
Quickly, he stands back up; the tumble
seeming only to scuff his pride-
until a precarious glance down at a scraped knee
cause his eyes to burst like water balloons.
Somewhere between our first hello and the ground,
I lost control of my own heart.
And now, long after last call, I still pour drinks
hoping to sleep in until after the mourning.
For months, I’ve been telling blank pages
that I’ll write, that I’m alright; but
I can’t put pen to paper without remembering
the last time I saw you. I fell
for you like skydiving without a parachute.
This is so much more than a scraped knee—
I’m trying so hard not to see the damage.

Some people ache for pain,
yearn for the burn of rope on their wrists,
lust for the sting of ******* on their back,
go so far as to pay for their own subjugation.
I am not the sort
yet here I am bound
and flogged
and utterly dominated.
I didn’t ask for this,
didn’t go looking for this.
I just didn’t know there were any pictures of you left.

I tried to distract myself with a movie the other night,
something tragic, something ridiculously catastrophic,
something to say it could always be worse.
On screen, Earth shuddered
violently, a magnitude
never felt before. Even my own walls quaked
with the boom of the speakers to get the point across.
All of our monuments toppled,
all things we built to be proud of crumbled,
and there was yelling and fright
while in every direction people were dying.
If Hollywood is to be believed, this
is how the end will come—a natural disaster
so unnatural in its magnitude
with a penchant for destruction.
And it will not come quietly.
It will not come quietly.

But there was no deafening groan of Earth,
no terrifying rumble
no swallowing everything into its gaping maw.
No, just the empty air of unanswered questions,
a goodbye you whispered like a eulogy.
And only I crumbled.

In the most private corner of
the tiny cafeteria, a young
couple shares a meal after school.
In between washing down their burgers
with soda and making out, she speaks.
Babysitting—her newest hobby
(And not just for the money).
On and on she talks about how fulfilling
watching a child is… as if she isn’t one.
He chokes catching her meaning:

“If the ****** breaks, I won’t mind.”

As if having children is just as easy as
pouring invisible tea for a table of dolls.
Premature parenthood—she’s so eager;
he drowns the idea in another mouthful of soda.
Tears end the conversation; though, not
his fault—she checked her watch, tensely.
Mother is an hour late picking up
her daughter from junior high.

A supple seedling sought sustenance and discovered sanctuary in my palm. In brief time, its roots burrowed under my skin and siphoned life from my veins. Nurtured by my warmth, nourished by my blood, at last the seedling blossomed in my unclosing hand—a ravishing crimson rose, in and of itself proof of God and His artistry. Every day, I gazed upon this rose in scrutinizing admiration, watching it grow more exquisite by the minute. Each beat of my heart pumped precious life to this rose, grafting our souls together—I could feel it breathe, could taste the sun, could feel the wind on its petals as if against my own flesh.

But how I regret, in one single act of angered negligence, I clenched my fist and crushed this rose, perfect rose that I adored—in turn, destroying a part of my soul as crimson dripped from between my fingers.

If only we were leopard slugs,
we’d be an upside-down ballet, already
dangling from a string of our own mucous,
sensually embracing while wrapped
in each other’s gigantic blue *****.
You fertilizing me fertilizing you
as we spin like a disco ball
because this is where the party’s at.
And if you listen closely,
David Attenborough commentates
on the magic of our ***-
and woman, it would be ******* magic.
We’re hermaphrodites, I can dance this dance
with any leopard slug I see.
You should be flattered
I chose to get slimy with you.

Except we’re not leopard slugs.
Instead, there was a half-assed attempt at romance-
tonight, a bouquet on sale at the gas station-
and now I’m enduring bland small talk
over a meal I don’t want to pay for
that I pepper with lies to increase my chances
that you and I will get sticky in our own juices.
I envy the leopard slug.

We’ve only had the appetizer
but I think I should have just stayed home
and watched a documentary.

Fireflies strike lightning in their bellies
all to find that perfect mate;
love spoken in a Morse Code of light.

Lacking bio-luminescence, I shine
my MagLite in your face
on and off and on and off and
you refuse to let me on or
get me off.

I realize we are not lightning bugs
but I’m starting to think
we have no spark;

perhaps I should change tactics.

A male porcupine seduces the ladies
by giving them a *******;
should I pull out the plastic tarp?
A male giraffe drinks the female’s *****;
how thirsty can you make me?

Lady terrapin turtles are won
with just a tickle of the cheek;
lady lemurs like when their men stink;
and a dung beetle will fill a hole with ****.

Look, I’ve taken you to dinner already,
we’ve had a couple overpriced cocktails-
that’s like a peacock showing his feathers
and I’m confident I have ******* pretty feathers;
Daddy told me that should be enough
and that sometimes she’ll play hard to get
and sometimes you just have to take what you want.
Things don’t need to get messy
-that’s on you-

but we are just animals, after all

You give expensive presents
but your presence is cheap,
leaves me feeling worthless.
I attempt to tempt love from your lips
but you return an empty kiss
squeamishly
as though I were a corpse.
Meeting your gaze feels shameful
like walking in on your parents *******.
(I even blush.)
In the vacant catacombs of your eyes
flames of a crematorium blaze.
I’m not even dead yet;
but in this glance, I learn
that we are.

I can’t help but sweat
as my lips turn to ash,
as my love goes up in flames.

There is no ego when
strength and eloquence abandons,
ruining her dress as knees dig
into the grass.

What took rivers lifetimes,
hot tears carve like razors
grand canyons of sadness, altering
forever the landscape of her face
all in the moments it takes to lower
her husband’s casket.

Her wailing: so pained, so disabling
all present must re-center their balance;
yet while watching her, I
stand crippled with compunction—
she mourns her lover,
I covet her ever having one

Dawn creeps in through curtains,
spilling onto a bed too big for just myself.
Unwilling to grow
accustomed to such excess space,
I sleep only on my side
should you ever return to yours.

As ever other morning,
I give the tea kettle a good shine
before lighting the burner.
Aside from being your kettle,
it is nothing special,
has never surprised me,
yet still I watch with irrational urgency,
fingers crossed.

A bit of honey, squeeze of lemon-
I don’t even care for tea.
This is how you like it,
how I’ll prepare it.

To my disappointment
the water simply boils.
The whistle is not a waking genie,
steam unprepared to grant wishes.
If only this kettle were Aladdin’s lamp-
I’d have just one wish—
not for your return

to forget you.

Can we just be **** buddies
instead of lovers?
Perhaps if I just met you;
if we were just two strangers at a bar
open to company
while seeking solitude;
a bad week drowning in snifter after snifter
so, too, inhibitions washed away in a flood of whiskey
until we’re making eye contact
until let me introduce myself
until conversation is more suggestive glances than speaking
until our lips are too preoccupied for conversation
until we’re in a fight with self-control in the back seat of a taxi
until we’ve lost the fight in my bed
until it’s the morning after
until “I don’t want to date but we should do that again.”
Maybe then.
Except I didn’t just meet you at a bar.
Except we are not strangers
but suddenly this bed feels strange to me.

Can we just be **** buddies
instead of lovers?
As if our adventures were just
mundane check-marks on a to-do list;
as if your sunshine-smile isn’t the catalyst
to photosynthesis of happiness in my heart;
as if I didn’t express it at least once daily from the moment
I discovered I loved you 900 days ago;
as if I only cared to expose your flesh and not your dreams;
as if I only love you for the parts you beg me to enter;
as if I could touch you without stacking up plans for our future together
like building blocks, so tall the Berj Khalifa would be jealous;
as if after all we’ve shared, I could settle with being just a stain on your sheets.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I said I’d give you anything but you’ve proven me a liar.

And like Jenga we collapse,
only you made the damning move but I
sleep in our ruins, the loser.

Three years together but still
you’re the lover I never had

The sun is cut in half by the horizon and its blood flows out into the surrounding blue. Darkness ever so cautiously creeps forward as the sun drowns waiting to be resurrected by the morning. And in the distance, the sky weeps as two seagulls pay homage to the passing day.

There is thunder in the waves as they curl up and hammer the shore. White foam crawls up the sand with a hiss and then back to join mother. For one brief moment… silence. Then, another clap of thunder as silence chases the sun.

Mist is carried through the air as a gentle breeze sweeps across the shore. With darkness comes an overwhelming cool, relieving heat of its duty. High up above, in the vastness of space, the stars come out of hiding. Twinkling with excitement, these celestial children watch the busy world below.

And on the shore, they can see us. We are the perfect love story. Our bodies entangle as we create sand-angels beneath us. The music of my pounding heart beats into your ear sitting atop my chest; with each breath, your eyes get heavier and heavier. Your hair feels like silk as it caresses my bare skin, sending shivers of comfort down my spine. Sand cascades between my toes as your toes dance gingerly across my feet. The candy-sweet scent of fruit from your breath slithers up my nose as a revelation strikes me.

In this moment I realize Utopia is not some far off place of fantasy’s creation, or just some lost city like Atlantis. Rather, it is a rare mental state that is only found with the one you love.

I should be there now. But all good stories must have an end—so here is ours. I am like a cat now bored by playing with its prey. You see, I do not love you. It was all an illusion, a lie I’ve lived too long with—which is why I fed you those poison-laced strawberries. So here I give you one last kiss as your eyes finally close. And in the distance, the sky still weeps.

My body is water
but from dust was conceived.
I beg you to receive this filth that is me.
Like mud mold me until you behold me
as a shrine of your most unholy design.
Am I worthy?
Debauchedly ***** your flesh in this
wretched mess; on hands and knees
I mumble pleas to taste your breath
and drink your sweat. Violate me so
indiscreetly in every way obscene–
I’ll pray for God to intervene but
if he refuses we’re fated
for matrimony. This love we’ll
cement in a cemetery with vows
stolen from a eulogy. I’ll carry
a shovel like a bouquet and with
“I do” step into my grave.
But let it be known on my tombstone
that with open arms I welcomed
your charms. This is my future.
For what am I but an open wound
and you, my suture.

Not even empty pews want to make room
for boys like me;
but, oh, how mother’s heart would ache
to listen about the Almighty Son without her own.
Be it truth or lie,
we choose to believe what’s most palatable.
Sweet, innocent, ignorant woman that she is,
mother chews on the belief
that the light of God will change me.
So I play my role dutifully;
never do I turn my head from the pulpit.
It’s all about appearances, anyway.
But really, I’m enraptured
by the near-naked Messiah staring down at us all.

He dangles before me like a carrot.
Oh, that sweet, sinewy body of Christ—
those abs
that long, flowing hair
that battered expression, that restraint.
Something about a man in submission
really gets me off. Jesus,
I wouldn’t need a *******;
put the real thing in my mouth.
And oh my lord, those hands-
what ***** **** could we get into?
He was a carpenter; I’ve got wood.
This fisher of men—
he’d have no need for the other 12.
We could make that boat rock without them.
Come all ye faithful?
Indeed, I would.
Does he scream his own name
or Daddy’s?

Call me sacrilegious;
call me obscene;
call me what you want.
Are my sins any worse than your own?
At least I’m here, Bible in my lap.
Every Sunday, we all paint our halos gold,
put a few dollars in the basket—
that’s all anyone cares about these days,
forgetting Jesus dined with society’s dregs.
Aren’t we all just here for the body of Christ?
Some of us just have to hide
the erections it gives us.

Post copulation, most preying mantis males
will get cannibalized by their partner.
Even stranger still, I tell the class,
is that a male angler fish will fuse to the female
and then atrophy until he’s nothing left but ******.
The lesson could be that males
will often seek out *** at great cost to themselves.

And there in the front row:
I do not think this is a staring contest
but she refuses to break eye contact,
forces herself
into a dark closet behind my eye-*****,
sifts through the hamper where my most soiled secrets hide
as she tongue-****-swirls a cherry Tootsie Roll pop.

Her pleated skirt is a trap,
those legs baiting me ever closer.
Those long, taut legs;
those milky smooth thighs;
those intoxicating hips.
Those legs with the power to gift life
or destroy it.

Oh Lord, give me strength

Words tumble out of my mouth
like novice gymnasts falling flat.
Or there are none at all.
Or they are preceded by machine-gun-stutters.
She smirks, lollipop still in her mouth,
lips stained red like she’s ****** the life out of me.

Only I think she has—
I check my neck to make for certain.
It’s suddenly so hot in here.
My shirt is moist; I need a cold shower.
My pulse is racing; I think I’m going to faint.

She takes my retreat as an invitation to advance,
leans over my desk far enough to expose
her lack of a bra. Leans in closer.
So close I taste cherry.
And I don’t know if she’s blinked, yet.

Her voice is a knife penetrating flesh,
the sound of the first drop of blood
spattering on the ground.
Her words could ****.
Toying with a button on her blouse, she whispers,
“I really need to get something off my chest.”

How unfair the hormones, giving this child
an adult body. How unfair the hormones,
giving her adult desires. How unfair the hormones,
making her bored with boys her own age.
How unfair my own hormones, giving me a sweet-tooth
for ***** moans.

She volunteers to stay after class.
I freeze, unable to respond.
You’d like to think that there’d be no question,
that you’d instinctively do the right thing when tested.
She is no mantis, I’d leave here head still attached;
there are other ways, though, to end a man.
And, indeed, I would be destroyed.
But this is biology.
The lesson could be that males
will seek out *** at great cost to themselves.

I despise those girls at the gym:
the skinny ones,
their black spandex tight
against contours and curves
that beckon with every footfall;
those skinny girls
that spend hours on the treadmill
without breaking a sweat and still
manage to smell sweetly;
those skinny girls
always taking selfies and body shots,
preaching to followers to do things
naturally
even though their robust *******
don’t bounce

You can find it in candy, in baked goods, maybe in a decadent mole. You can sip a hot cup of it on a cold day; you can smother ice cream with it. Just about everyone has tasted chocolate, most find it absolutely delicious (can you even be trusted if you don’t?). We give it on days of love, days of sadness. July 7 is even dedicated to chocolate. It should come as no surprise, then,
that Aztecs thought cacao seeds were a gift from the gods. Even used them as currency. While letting chocolate melt over your tongue in near ****** fervor, do you think of it as a rotten thing? Such glorious, mouth-watering, diving chocolate starts its life from slimy, bitter beans hiding inside an alien looking cacao pod. And the first step to chocolate is fermentation. You let it spoil.

Perhaps only those with podopholia would joyously consider licking a foot. Yet, how popular: to consume milk rotting with the same bacteria found on our feet and in our armpits. The smellier the better. The French, so admiring of this, call the most offensive, tasty smells “god’s feet”! Like chocolate, cheese is also delicious rot.

Not all rot is bad rot. Fermenting kept civilization alive and fed before the invention of refrigeration. From sauerkraut to pickles to beer—and the list goes on—many culinary masterpieces were achieved.

We, however, are not food
no matter how much we tried to consume
one another. We aged
but did not ferment into something greater
than ourselves.
You do not satisfy my sweet cravings,
I do not intoxicate you.
We simply spoiled; turned toxic.

She was a small woman;
although, she’d be quick to point out
she was an inch too tall to be classified
a little person.
And my bed, while not massive,
it once accommodated three sleeping adults.
However, when she and I slept,
its space was tragically inadequate.
Somehow, I became like a mountain climber
forced to attempt rest on the slimmest sliver of cliff,
one wrong toss or turn in the throes of slumber
and I was an avalanche of frustration
falling for her in all the wrong ways.

We’re not together anymore—
there were few reasons much bigger than her.
How we slept, or rather,
how she slept was indicative of our issues.
If ever I start to miss her, I stretch out
and roll over back into reclaimed territory.
Her name is merely a memory
of confiscated space,
of the destructive power of avalanches

In 1957, a respected BBC news program
aired footage of Swiss peasants harvesting spaghetti
from trees. No, not the squash– the noodle.
The BBC phone lines were burdened with calls,
viewers from all over wanted to know how
to get hands on their own spaghetti tree.
A successful April Fool’s joke.
A nation laughed at its gullibility.

Not too many years ago, a coworker’s whole office
was foiled. As in everything from his desk,
computer, pictures on the wall, his globe,
down to individual pens were wrapped
in aluminum foil like Sunday’s leftovers.
Cleanup was tedious
but he laughed the whole time.
This is April Fool’s, after all.

A good friend once–and only once–
printed up very believable medical lab reports.
He led his girlfriend to believe he was dying of cancer.
When she burst into tears, he burst into laughter.
She didn’t stay mad for long,
can now laugh at such a convincing prank.
It’s April Fool’s, after all.

I told you I still love you.
You laughed and I followed your lead.
My love is such a funny punchline
but this is not the joke we wish it was.
The most random of memories of you
on the most random of days can still make me cry.
I am still in love with you.
I am just a fool in April.
The only joke here.

Whoa!
We don’t need a safe word
but maybe some ground rules.
There will be no kissing.
Don’t make me aware of my shame
by looking me in the eyes.
Yes, it’s good to see you but…
I don’t care about your day or how you feel,
don’t even start—in fact, let’s not
even speak outside of the long moans and short slaps
of skin on skin that we interpret like Morse Code.
Just take of your clothes
or rather
pull down your pants just enough
for me to slip inside.
Getting comfortable is for lovers—
I don’t want to be misleading.

Stop.
Do not use my pillow.
I refuse to risk waking later
and finding your hair or smelling your scent.

This
isn’t about making beautiful memories,
isn’t about the foundation of something lasting,
isn’t even about the survival of our species.

It’s nothing personal.

This
is about the NOW,
is about giving in to our carnal vices,
is about having something other
than our own hands to bring us to

******. You don’t even have to fake it—
I’ll get mine, yours is not my priority.
However, even if I end up the utensil
to your ******, we will not spoon;
cuddling will just keep you here longer than necessary,
pillow talk violates the rules.

I’m sorry if you thought otherwise—this
is not making love.
The most beautiful thing about tonight
just may be watching you wipe what remains
of me off your lips.

And I apologize again.
Maybe you deserve better but
the sweetest thing I may do is walk you to the front door
or rather
I’ll distract the room mates just long enough
for you to sneak out,
to avoid introductions,
to save you from that awkward moment
when you remember that you
are not my girlfriend, merely

my ***** laundry