I remember the morning Tuesday was invented—
how gleeful we sang across the streets—
forgetting that the day after tomorrow would be Thor’s day
and that one we didn’t own, too.

I remember the bathroom stalls, the sins of Leviticus
we survived
comforting our confusion with the indulgence that God too
love man, kind.

Let the purgatory full of half good men sing about their sins
with pride and laugh at the moons and stars for being without limbs
and tongues to protest their innocence and Idontgiveadamnisms;

For I remember being fed the tenets of heterosexual history in elementary school
yet wondering why queer gods are the ones named after the planets.

He is rougher then being dumped
from the saddle of a bay mare,
but perhaps she shouldn’t be riding
******* past vineyards of red rusted vines.
 
And if she is on fire then she should probably roll
or climb into a hot tub on ***** Thursday
and put out the flame ignited by the thought
of hoping to God his parents can’t hear her.
 
She had always wanted to know what it felt like
to slaughter someone. So when he placed his palms
on the arch of her back and massacred her lips,
I imagined her smashing his skull against a brick wall.
 
And when she is in the bathroom washing him off
her hands, with a published poet in the next stall
she shouldn’t yell *******, I’m not a flower
and start listing off the ten rules to **** ***.
 
Because no matter how many times she uses him
as her own personal merry go round or slams
back beer after beer, he will never die in a coffin
so that she can say he is already dead and
buried.

Once we danced along to the same
sweet song, that you composed so
softly on acoustic chords.

Now, it is just a beat you keep
in time with, banging on pots
and pans like a child throwing
a tantrum. It's not my fault

your girlfriend looks like your
kid sister, or that I ******
your best friend
because you were too busy

maintaining another meaningless
relationship with 'the love of your life';
A title you give away like the generic
trophies parents get personalized

to cheer their children up when
they lose. Eventually, they'll realize
they're all the same, and changing

the name on the plaque doesn't
make up for failing. Like picking petals
off flowers, the only one that matters

is the one left standing in the end.
But the next time you go plucking
daisies from fields, and steal

their manes for predicting
the future. I still won't believe
in love. I never did.

Tonight I am an astronaut
in between an old woman
who smells like ink, sudoku, and *****,
and a window with a full moon
that is held in the sky by a wing.

I'd like to tell her
what everybody thinks
when they fly.
I'd tell her
what it would be like
if we crashed
and I had to choose
between her
and myself.

Selfishly I would choose myself.
My mother could not outlive me.
Yet, she could be my mother's mother.
She could have seen the full moon
from the backseat of a Model T
or from her back in a desert
that is now Las Vegas or Phoenix
or full moons from ninety years or full moons.

But this plane will not crash
and I will not have to choose
yet I am still repulsed.
I'll too be old. Soon.
Tomorrow, maybe.
Yet, I promise
I will not smell of ****
or fly in a plane
without a seat
next to a window
so I could see the full moon
from outer space.

I wish I was your little
whiskey girl and you
were pouring yourself
into my bottle to come
drink me up.

But you drained me
dryer than the Savannah.
Now men build boats
inside me, and I haven't
a corkscrew to get out.

I wish I was your little
*** doll and you were
dizzy over me, slurring
I love you's and burning
with me in your throat.

But you don't drink
expensive liquor anymore
not since you spent your money
on losing lottery tickets
and vinyl.

I'm top shelf
but that is only because
you put me there
to forget about me.
And now you drown
yourself in wells,
blacking out
the parts of you
that loved me.

I lit the candle
with two hydros,
and burned the house
down with a bottle
of whiskey. The next
morning I wandered
through the ashes
looking for shower
invitations and aspirin.

Back in bars, filled
with screaming amps
and glaring ex lovers
I wove my way
in-between old friends
and mating dances,
losing Hemingway
and storm clouds.

I dropped the anchor
in your apartment,
falling mid sentence
into stain ridden furniture
and empty Budweiser bottles.
The only thing I broke
that night, was my determination
on not being a blow up doll
molded after some girl
I was never going to be.

So I laid there kissing
ghosts and shook
with a fever and chills
vibrating like telephones
on silent. And you wondered
where I went once
the door closed.

You can't define cordial as
branding someone
and mailing them back
to a delusional soul falling
in love with them
after. Hot metal
pokers weren't made
for joyous reunions.
They make sure you
always know where
you leave your scars.