Tuesday, February 26, 2008


Don’t look at me. I am invisible.
Don’t want you.
Don’t want you to know me, find me
see me inside myself, all built up scar tissue.
Don’t touch me!
You’ll tear the scabs and I’ll bleed.
Oh, I will bleed and bleed and bleed
tears of blood stream from my eyes.

My brother cried blood when he died.

Hover over me
Heat touches me before flesh.
Oh gods
Settle into me so slow, so careful
Am I that fragile?
Every bone broken and set,
it hurts, it hurts to breathe.
Cry out. Not in passion.
In pain. In fear. I cry.

Why are you here?
Why you and not not not-
No ghosts. Push them back,
back into their corners, boxes, closets.
Lock them up and throw away the key.
Huh. You can’t lock up ghosts.

Stop taunting me with kisses, remembered touch.
Ghosts. Shadows. Stop.

Help me forget.
Dip your fingers in the whitewash, cover it.
I am fevered, raw, exposed.
Kiss me, oh god, kiss me.
Make it all go away.


Watching Her

It’s a rare thing, her
sleeping. Afraid to touch her,
he watches instead.

Never relaxes.
Fighting it. What will she miss?
Anything? Nothing?

Frowns, curled around a
pillow. He wants to kiss her.
But he won’t. He won’t.

Deprivation. Days
and days, leaving her thin and
wasted, so tired.

She won’t tell him why
she is afraid of sleep, what
nightmares wait for her.

She has secrets. He
knows. Broken eyes. Even in
her sleep, she is cloaked.

Fragile, he holds her,
crying into her pillow
asks, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.”

Why does she lie? Why?
Can’t fix a broken person
behind a smokescreen.

Touching her sadness,
its scent fills the room, sweet and
gone. He loves her. Fool.

Sleep, little girl, sleep.
It’ll be okay. I promise.
And he holds her. Tight.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris

I see her almost every day and nod, smiling. She nods back. When she notices. If she notices. She wears bike shorts and a teeny camisole. Watching her, her legs, the way they extend, toes pointed, as she rides. No hands. It’s a crime for a woman her age to wear bike shorts and look that good. It’s a crime to look that good. And not be mine.

I can see myself between those legs.

Her shirt plastered to her, to her breasts. I wonder if they’re real. I wonder what her sweat coated skin tastes like, run my tongue along her linea negra, her navel, up to her ribs, fragile bones I could crush. Licking the salt pooled under those breasts, while my fingers... Smoothing my hands over her, that crease where her legs meet that perfect heart-shaped ass, clench those thighs, just hard enough to see my fingerprints.

I can see myself squeezing those breasts.

I want her flushed and sweaty. Because of me. Not her bike. She reaches up, exposing a few inches of sun-kissed skin, just above the indent of her spine, dimples on either side. If she were younger, she’d have a tramp stamp there, across her lower back. But she doesn’t. I want to see her ride me until she collapses. After, I’ll bathe her and rub scented lotion into that skin.

I can see my name tattooed there, on her lower back.

Opalescent. Not shell, not marble, not metal, no, not cold at all. I touched her once. Brushed past her on the express line at Publix "where shopping is a pleasure." She was picking up the Sunday New York Times and a dozen donuts. It was early. The Times sells out by 8. "Oh. Excuse me. Did I trip you?" I grasp her elbow, hold it to steady her. "No, I’m fine, really I am. It’s okay." Oh god, her elbow, her arm so warm and solid. Warm, like a cat napping in a sunny spot under the window. Does she stretch like a cat, paws down, butt in the air, exposed, tail flicking back and forth?

I can see myself curled up with her, tail holding me to her.

I would...
Oh I would bury my handsfaceself inside her. I would.
I want to make her eyes roll back, make her toes curl, make her throb and twitch and spasm
I want to make her cry out, make her breathless, dazed, exhausted, make her happy.
I want to make her happy.
I want to make her forget all the sad.
I want to make her forget all the befores
I want to make her mine.
If only she’d let me. If only.

What color are her eyes when she wakes up? When she cums? Sleeping beauty, I’ll love you awake, slow smile of pleasure at dreams become real. They will become real. Open your eyes to a living dream and let them be real. If you kissed me, brushed those lips against me, gave me a chance, one chance, just one chance, I know, I know you’d cry "yes, oh yes, oh yes." My mouth on yours, nibbling your lower lip, tongue slowly, so slowly entering your mouth, running it over your teeth, your palate, flicking against your tongue. Let me fall into an abyss I never want to climb out of. If only you’d let me.

I can see myself in her. I want to see myself in her.

Hair just long enough to wrap around my hand, pull her head back and stroke her windpipe with my thumbs. I could press. But I don’t. Push her down, feel that hot little mouth on me, oh yes. Taste me on her lips. After. I want her stretched out, naked. So naked. I want her insides, outsides, substantives, ephemerals. Feel that heart shaped ass on me, the curve of her spine. I’ll keep you in my pocket. Safe. I want you. I want everything about you.

And you don’t even know I exist.

Sleepless in Orlando

Tired, so tired. Pacing the halls, room by room, late night train whistles.
Haven’t slept in... I don’t know how long. But long.
I miss it.
Not sleep. Oh well yes, I guess that too. But not so much as you.
Sleeping with you. No, not ‘sleeping with you’
(although I do miss that, I’d be lying if I denied it and I never lie. Not about that, anyway.)
but sleeping, with my ‘come closer, you are such a good fit to me.’
Sleeping with my safe haven.
I could hold you touch you be near you all night and sleep. You, by me.
It’s so easy for some people. Not for me.
Oh, nothing is ever easy for me.
To be with others? all tangled limbs and then to sleep?
Not me.
Why does it have to be so hard? Why?
I’m not a baby, awkward, cold. So why?
Why do I miss your too-warm substance next to me?
Why do I wake up wishing it was you next to me?
Why do I want to wake up with our fluids smeared on my thighs?
Why do I want to kiss your eyes open, nuzzle you, crawl under you and hide?
Why does everyone else feel so wrong?

Really Bad Poetry and Getting Worse Every Day-6th revision

My beloved, with great precision in wording, remitted to me a missive
I prayed it was to give me a decision and it be neither dismissive nor derisive.
Holding that page he had touched, reading it, again, hoping against hope, but
my heart, my soul, my infinite infinitesimal being, all those he had cut
It was sincerely antithetical to me, all the quick and the sloe
was I merely parenthetical? Nothing? I have nowhere to go
but up. O! I cannot bear it. I am rent from inside out. Down is so very very far.
The queen of hearts cries, Off with her head, rip out her soul. The elevator car
stops at the bottom, at the open maw of the shaft.
Crawling out, I climb aboard the terrible, waiting raft,
Holding my eroded dreams in my trembling hands. On a sea of molasses, we drift away
Those dreams drip from my fingers as tears drip from my eyes. O! horrid selfsame day.
I, upon my raft, float along the bubbling, rancid, foul-smelling Styx.
Care I a whit or a ha-penny? Nay. It is a far better thing I do. My life is nix.
I am a rotting corpse now, you see
It’s the only way. It’s what had to be
because my beloved, oh my darling, my best and only beloved sent me a letter.
And the letter was ‘no.’

Saturday, February 9, 2008

And A Happy New Year

i don't believe in prefacing my work. each piece stands or falls on its own. but its been a roller coaster week, much emotional turmoil, culminating in yet another instance of verbal abuse. so, in honor of my birthday, anniversary and a tip of the glass to pandora's box , i present.....

“Un cerveza, por favor.” Just one little beer, how could it hurt, hurt any more than she did already? She rubbed her abdomen, its internal soreness aggravated by its external sunburn.

“One beer, miss, with lime? Corona, Dos Equis or Especiale?”

“Especiale con cal, por favor.” That’s so funny, she thought. La gringa se habla espanol and el mejicano speaks English. Without an accent, too. What a twisted world. She gazed out at the plaza, her eyes protected from the glare by her “Jackie O” style sunglasses.

The midday sun was fierce, white-hot, leaching the bright embroidered dresses, serapes, ponchos and oversized sombreros of their color. The gray adobe landscape misted before her, the individual pieces melted into an uneven dust covered lump. It looked to her like a raisin studded Christmas pudding in a snow of confectioners sugar, the sweet sugar hiding the alcohol soaked evil of the dessert.

A Christmas pudding I’ll never taste again, god willing, stuck here in taco and tequilla land. She lifted the beer, surprised to find it empty.

“Un mas, por favor,” she called to the waiter.

“Yes, miss, and will you be dining with us this afternoon?”

“Si, un taco de aquacate con crema y un carne de puerco con chile verde.”

“Thank you, miss, I’ll bring your beer and your lunch will be ready shortly.”

The plaza entertainers processed through the courtyard, a troupe of eight men and women in fake, polyester Aztec garb, accompanied by three midgets in loincloths and body paint. The midgets did a series of acrobatic tricks on a trampoline, while the troupe performed a desultory sword and sun worship dance. It was a hackneyed show, suitable to the heat and lack of an audience.

She sighed again, removed her sunglasses and rubbed at her eyes with a twisted napkin. The green and purple bruises were stark against her tanned face. No, I won’t have any Christmas pudding this year, will I, she thought to herself, and a happy fucking New Year, too.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Misadventures of the Shoes: Charity Brawl

We’re going out! Our little girl is taking us out! About effing time, too. We were born to be wild. That is our whole entire raison d’etre.

What is the point of having ‘fuck me’ pumps if you’re not going out hunting? Or at least going out SOMETHING?

Okay, serious business now. The dress.

No. Not that one. Not that one either. No. Oh puh-leze.

Yes, we understand you want to wear this one. We KNOW you were thinking of this dress when you brought us home, we do. How? We’re the shoes, we know EVERYTHING. Seriously, not this one.

Yes, we know. Yes, you do look great in it. Yes, you do have a body to die for. Yes, it does make men want you and women want to be you.




The shoes know. Isn’t that why you brought us home? It’s okay.

Tonight, you are going to look classy, not trashy. You have people to impress. Most of all, you have yourself to impress. Classy, not trashy.

Go on, zip it up. Much better. Don’t you feel proud now? You know it’s the right thing to do. That was the dress when it doesn’t matter. This is the dress for courage. Stand tall, lttle girl.

We’ll make sure our little girl has a good time. We know you haven’t been to a party in forever and you’ve never been to a party alone. Not merely unescorted, but totally alone. You don’t know a single person here. It’s okay. That’s why we’re here. The shoes will be your escorts for the evening, madam.

We’ll make sure you have a good time and you get whatever you want.

Dance, little girl, dance.

Don’t worry, you just dance by yourself. Anybody looks askance, reflection on them, not on you. You just have your own good time. Conga line? What do you think? Limbo was great, loved that, but conga? Oh why not.

"Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga. I know you can't control yourself any longer."


Did that bitch do what we think she did?

No. Can’t be.

"Feel the fire of desire as you dance the night away. 'Cos tonight we're gonna party til we see the break of day."

She did it again. Okay, little girl, you going to handle this or are we going to do it?

"Excuse me. You put your hands on my waist and touched my breasts. You put your hands on my hips and grabbed my ass. If you don’t keep your carpet-munching hands to yourself, I’m going to take you down. You put hands on me like a guy, you get treated like a guy. Do NOT touch me."

Our turn.

"OOPS! Did I stomp you foot? I am SO sorry." Sorry our instep! We feel great!

"I know you can't control yourself any longer. Feel the rhythm of the music getting strongerDon't you fight it till you've tried it. Do the conga beat. Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga."

You know, there’s nothing like going to a charity ball, trying to do a mitzvah and having it morph into a charity brawl.

Take us home, beautiful. Tomorrow is another day.

Blue Shift

Dusty whistle. Who is awake to hear?
It echoes your words.
Glass cold against my cheek,
eyes closed, even the crescent moon is too much.
I kneel at the window as it fades.
It fades.

Your question touches me.
It hovers, acrid smoke tendrils in the dark
expectant, hopeful, open. Time.
Can’t lie at four a.m. can’t lie in the here, after.

I slide to the floor, crawl
heavy gardenia air casting faint shadows on the windowsill
a trail of crumbs behind me
Not answering.

Not answering is also an answer.
Feeling your eyes on my back,
hope fades, more smoke, sighs. You turn, speak to the wall,
"How can you and I be we if you talk to the moon?
And not to me, not ever to me?"
I shiver, feeling your words etched into my flesh.
"How can you and I be we?"

The whistle blows, blue shift to nothing. I rise,
follow the trail of tears back, mercury drops,
climb onto this oasis we’ve created. Close the breech.
Pressed against your back, head on your shoulder, I speak to your neck
to that place where the barber always misses a few strands,
"No lies. Not with you."
Interlocking guardrail lowers around us as you take my hand in yours
pull it to your mouth and kiss my pearl ridged fingerprints,
rough against your teeth.

"Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow and tomorrow, listen for the train with me."

Friday, February 1, 2008


I wanted to write about the gold. I did. The words wouldn't come. They stayed locked away just as the gold was locked away. It was in the vault so it would be safe from intruders and thieves. Rainy day safe. Yes.

A thief can come in many guises.

A thief can wear a hockey mask or stocking cap or pantihose to disguise his face. Or a thief can hide behind the face he wears every day. Hide in plain sight and, if asked why, will produce some sort of psychopathological excuse which the hearer can accept or reject. In any event, the thief has done what thieves do and it is up to the victim to accept or reject.

Love the sinner, hate the sin?

And when the sinner hates you? Despises you enough to steal and despises you even more for acting as if that theft was acceptable behavior? What then? Hate the sinner, love the sin? Does that work any better, feel any righter in my gut? No.

Hate the victim, hate the sinner, hate the sin. Yes. Because we all get what we deserve, I get what I deserve. The karma of the universe has its own balance that I am too small to see or comprehend, but there is balance nonetheless.

I am Stalin, Hitler, Genghis Khan, Vlad the Impaler, Papa Doc and Baby Doc, succubus, tsunami, the iceberg that hit the Titanic, the Bartholomew's Day Massacre, blood libel, jihad. I am every evil that was or will be. I am weak. I am a coward. And I will sit here and wait for whatever happens next.