it hurts everywhere i cannot touch.
"blue is the color of the day," is it?
then paint me all over.
(you undermine your own ardor.
though mine, too, is
tampered with.)
is it evidence
that we cannot
exist?
your words are
muted.
where your confusion lies,
i make my bed,
lie in it,
wave my arms in circles
looking for you.
you entered me
as gently
as a child opens his melting popsicle
correctly so. though.
wrong flavor.
wrong place.
wrong time.
i'm sorry.
for the roadblocks before us,
but weren't they always there?
why did you dream of me
then share
then let go?
i too, was weary.
i too, was terrified for
knowing.
(i don't know how to want you;
i don't know how not to want you.)
how far should i run
to hide myself
behind the laughter?
begin the transfusion of utter
chaos into my arms and breast
for the times you made me
full from just being?
where were you
when i was able?
my mind is clockwork
still.
it remembers without
knowing.
you.
For Dana Tompkins
Monday, August 25, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
His lips moved
over mine with the words,
"I'm sorry."
Though his eyes said,
I did not mean to crack you
wide open
cavernous.
flesh.
singed
with lust and
blued from
bruise.
He watched me tear my lips from my face
streaking red,
down my chin
into his mouth
where I rest
buried.
lust
into love
love to
rest.
if I could, i would cry.
I would carry the face of all his past
I would.
and re-enact each moment he could not look past
that which he burrowed into himself
screws into arms as hinges
of a shut door.
(For Dana)
over mine with the words,
"I'm sorry."
Though his eyes said,
I did not mean to crack you
wide open
cavernous.
flesh.
singed
with lust and
blued from
bruise.
He watched me tear my lips from my face
streaking red,
down my chin
into his mouth
where I rest
buried.
lust
into love
love to
rest.
if I could, i would cry.
I would carry the face of all his past
I would.
and re-enact each moment he could not look past
that which he burrowed into himself
screws into arms as hinges
of a shut door.
(For Dana)
lonely
i'm lonely when you are asleep.
you are tucked away into that world i cannot belong to.
your empty eyes flutter, like leaves after a storm, remembering.
you pry my hands off and shudder; you are right. there is a breeze.
from my shoreline, you are pangea. i was the tip
that broke off.
build me the civilization i know nothing of.
reign yourself king
as i start my revolution
to wake you.
you are tucked away into that world i cannot belong to.
your empty eyes flutter, like leaves after a storm, remembering.
you pry my hands off and shudder; you are right. there is a breeze.
from my shoreline, you are pangea. i was the tip
that broke off.
build me the civilization i know nothing of.
reign yourself king
as i start my revolution
to wake you.
Sexy
Do you ever wish upon stars?
Well, I do.
And I wish
I was sexy.
The day I become sexy,
I will mount and ride
every chair in this room.
And instead of you saying,
“What was your name again,”
you’ll moan, “MMMMM! OOOOHHH!”
And I’ll say, “Mm-hm. That’s me.”
Or when we see each other in the streets,
we won’t say, “Hey, what’s up?”
We’ll just take off our underwear
and trade.
I will be as sexy as
the song you make love to.
No, not the one you lost your virginity to.
Not that one,
the one you masturbate to.
Sexy is the cure to
the high school mathelete’s nerdom.
Sexy is the cure to
lonely nights,
the cure to awkward adolescence.
I assure you,
when I become sexy,
even the girls who love to hate --
they'll want me.
Instead of calling me a slut behind my back
for pleasing their boyfriends
in the dingy diner bathroom,
they’ll say, “Gee. I wish she did me.”
When I become sexy,
you’ll re-think the word, “love-handles.”
And OH, I know love handles.
I see myself daily in the shower,
grab them and think,
“When I become sexy,
these will be fuck-me-harder-handle bars.”
When I become sexy
you will mistake love for lust
and lust for me
and instead of “I love you,"
you'll say, “I wanna fuck you.”
When I become sexy and we touch,
the scent of pure, raw sex
will rub off unto you and to whomever you touch.
So we’ll all have massive orgies:
a room full of women with succulent tits,
piercing nipples touching themselves
to a room full of men touching themselves
to porn.
And we’ll all cum at the same time,
the echoes of simultaneous orgasm
will deafen our unborn children’s ears
and the quiet afterwards will feel like
silence after the snow
while all the women,
we'll cuddle with each other and
all the men, they'll fall asleep.
Sexy will be the one night stand
which is really love at first sight.
In the morning
when we wake in the others’ arms
with that startled look in our faces,
it wouldn’t mean, “Oh my God. How much did I have to drink last night??”
It would mean, “God damn, Ima go brush my teeth and fuck you again. I’ll fuck you for life.”
When I become sexy,
words like raunchy and smutty
will be synonyms to sweet and romantic.
And when you touch my skin,
you’ll harden like the rock
that was once your heart
and love will be second nature,
unquestioning, no jealousies,
no insecurities.
Cuz once you are inside me,
you’ll wanna stay for good
and cum for life
and this will be
the only place you’ll want to be inside.
(For DJT)
Well, I do.
And I wish
I was sexy.
The day I become sexy,
I will mount and ride
every chair in this room.
And instead of you saying,
“What was your name again,”
you’ll moan, “MMMMM! OOOOHHH!”
And I’ll say, “Mm-hm. That’s me.”
Or when we see each other in the streets,
we won’t say, “Hey, what’s up?”
We’ll just take off our underwear
and trade.
I will be as sexy as
the song you make love to.
No, not the one you lost your virginity to.
Not that one,
the one you masturbate to.
Sexy is the cure to
the high school mathelete’s nerdom.
Sexy is the cure to
lonely nights,
the cure to awkward adolescence.
I assure you,
when I become sexy,
even the girls who love to hate --
they'll want me.
Instead of calling me a slut behind my back
for pleasing their boyfriends
in the dingy diner bathroom,
they’ll say, “Gee. I wish she did me.”
When I become sexy,
you’ll re-think the word, “love-handles.”
And OH, I know love handles.
I see myself daily in the shower,
grab them and think,
“When I become sexy,
these will be fuck-me-harder-handle bars.”
When I become sexy
you will mistake love for lust
and lust for me
and instead of “I love you,"
you'll say, “I wanna fuck you.”
When I become sexy and we touch,
the scent of pure, raw sex
will rub off unto you and to whomever you touch.
So we’ll all have massive orgies:
a room full of women with succulent tits,
piercing nipples touching themselves
to a room full of men touching themselves
to porn.
And we’ll all cum at the same time,
the echoes of simultaneous orgasm
will deafen our unborn children’s ears
and the quiet afterwards will feel like
silence after the snow
while all the women,
we'll cuddle with each other and
all the men, they'll fall asleep.
Sexy will be the one night stand
which is really love at first sight.
In the morning
when we wake in the others’ arms
with that startled look in our faces,
it wouldn’t mean, “Oh my God. How much did I have to drink last night??”
It would mean, “God damn, Ima go brush my teeth and fuck you again. I’ll fuck you for life.”
When I become sexy,
words like raunchy and smutty
will be synonyms to sweet and romantic.
And when you touch my skin,
you’ll harden like the rock
that was once your heart
and love will be second nature,
unquestioning, no jealousies,
no insecurities.
Cuz once you are inside me,
you’ll wanna stay for good
and cum for life
and this will be
the only place you’ll want to be inside.
(For DJT)
fingering
i’m fingering the exit wound
of your bullet.
wondering why i never felt
the point of entry.
how the hole is just big enough
for me to fit my
index finger into my own flesh,
just a quarter of an inch or so.
how you stare at me, wide eyed
unable to speak because
you didn’t know i too,
was flesh and blood.
For Dana
August 22, 2008
of your bullet.
wondering why i never felt
the point of entry.
how the hole is just big enough
for me to fit my
index finger into my own flesh,
just a quarter of an inch or so.
how you stare at me, wide eyed
unable to speak because
you didn’t know i too,
was flesh and blood.
For Dana
August 22, 2008
Mother
I remember you.
I remember your freckles and smile
whenever someone tells me,
“I like your freckles.”
You did say good bye before leaving
for good.
Only, I didn’t know it was
for good.
I dream still
of
falling asleep to your song,
under the red light
in the dim room
yellow bedcovers.
dull walls.
linoleum floor.
The bathroom’s faucet
never shut off.
It dripped forever.
and there was a bucket full of wet clothes
you never wrung out to dry.
My cold toes
were tucked,
curled in my knees’ bend
cross legged.
You held me
in your lap
just fine
then.
You are my most
faithless
Lover.
I remember your freckles and smile
whenever someone tells me,
“I like your freckles.”
You did say good bye before leaving
for good.
Only, I didn’t know it was
for good.
I dream still
of
falling asleep to your song,
under the red light
in the dim room
yellow bedcovers.
dull walls.
linoleum floor.
The bathroom’s faucet
never shut off.
It dripped forever.
and there was a bucket full of wet clothes
you never wrung out to dry.
My cold toes
were tucked,
curled in my knees’ bend
cross legged.
You held me
in your lap
just fine
then.
You are my most
faithless
Lover.
Nothing Fits
Nothing fits.
I swallow.
Coffee
like it is a cure.
I wade in you.
Wait for
forever,
the number
printed on my ticket.
They just called
“28.”
And coffee gives me jitters.
(Bug.)
I tap all thirty toes.
Or they are fingers.
I swallow.
Coffee
like it is a cure.
I wade in you.
Wait for
forever,
the number
printed on my ticket.
They just called
“28.”
And coffee gives me jitters.
(Bug.)
I tap all thirty toes.
Or they are fingers.
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