Back home,
There is a boy
With red hair, freckles,
And eyes the shade of blue
His mother calls "lady killers."

He's colorblind;
At least enough to believe
In jellyfish.
His father builds houses
With a rib-less heart
The boy calls home.

His mother,
Sews trust with her spine.
And thirty years later
They still find love
In the lonely isles of
The local Laneco.

His teacher says
He needs a pen pal,
So after school
He writes to me:

"Hi, how are you."
"I'm fine, thanks, and you?"

And then he asks me
What it's like to be
"Grown up"
And just how many
Stars I've scarred
With nothing but the rusty
Edge of my name.

So I fold the
Envelope of this
Crinkled heart into a letter
Of tattered Bibles
From hotel drawers of
Lost loves and dead friends
And find the courage
To tell him what
Being a man means.

I tell him:
We call it growing up
Because boulders
Always roll down.
It's refusing CPR
For every time you drown
In your own pride.

It's loving a girl
For every time she tried.

Tried to
Convince your tunnel vision
That her body is not a cave.
That respecting a woman
Is more important
Than how well you pave
Your parking lot heart.

Shallow like a baking pan.

This is an apology.

For every man
Who ever thought a woman's body
Is the only temple worth praying to.
Making four leaf clovers
From petals of roses
Trying to get lucky.

I know it's not lovely,
To kiss someone who
Is so constantly
Full of *******.

And I'll admit it.
I'm not yet
Where I need to be
But I thank God
That I'm no longer
Where I use to

See I'm used to
Smoking way too many
*** scenes to know that
There is not enough
Alcohol in the world
To ever clear my mind.

And I have caused way
Too many Prozac commercials
To know that there is
No effective dosage
For this disorder
Of indecency.

To know that it is
No measure of good health
To be well adjusted
To a sick society
Of mechanical men
Always worried about
Who and when they're going
To plug into.

So I tell him:

You are not a robot,
A computer, or a program.
And your choices are the only
Thing that will ever make you a man.

So strap up your boots,
Bury the ashes,
Shake the dust,
And dandelion your
Heart in every
Direction of home.

But most importantly,
Go easy on the ladies;

Because
The older I get and
More I learn about myself
The more I'm writing
With my eraser
Than with anything else.

I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform.  Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.

Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings.  No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.  
We rid them of their troubles.

Shimmer highlights
Glitter heels
Make me dress
To his appeal
Make me a magnet
Of attraction
Objectify me
A distraction
Let me be an unholy thing
touched
Besmirched
On your whim
Be my prince
On my bed
I’m sleeping now
Between your legs
Saint Malady
Patron of the honest house
Enter through the backdoor
And let it be nothing more

Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?

Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,

fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like

those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all  
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.

I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.