Pints before two & I’m smitten. She likens
maybe running pants & boots;
they don’t seem a match,
maybe we are though.
It’s a crap shoot. It’s crap,
In all probability I’m a
No one shows interest in you
if you’re not interested in yourself.
You: case in point, tap away at a keyboard
already bored with me.
I read Frost’s ‘Fire & Ice’ in my head. It’s on a loop.
It’s a mantra.
Hopefully no one can catch on to what I’m catching on to. The faces,
& the jeans & dresses,
short shorts, & boyfriend
Eye-contact is the most fun. I try & have the blue pop
I woke up from a sketch
& there were women everywhere.
There’s no helping it, I stare.
It’s important not to linger, on well, really anywhere.
High-waisted things are in. This accents certain curves,
muscles I suppose. Hey, no complaints from me, the eternal
voyeur, abusing the hell out of my periphery.
Chalked in white on some obvious blackboard,
nudes reclining. They were sketched squiggly,
as though hurried, but the genitalia were all there.
Dicks dangling, tits pushed squarely up against
a square, he guessed. Maybe it was supposed to have
been an ottoman. It only contained two dimensions,
They rambled and danced on the chalkboard, and around
them were the remnants of the pre-lunch series of notes.
Mr. Simic sighed along with the class bell. What would
it take for him to lock the door after fourth period?
If he knew, he wouldn’t be sweating in a scramble to clear
the student prank. If he could remember to lock the door,
he could remember to zip up his zipper more often; he could
recall his estranged brother’s birthday; maybe he could
stop misplacing his brand new iPhone.
Sure, she might have been born with mirror
neurons fucked; this could explain the indifference
in minor human actions that make other girls swoon:
a curl of dark hair with a strong finger, the cool lean,
a gaze with an asymmetric smirk attached.
But maybe she got nurtured into not caring. No one
gave two of anything about her, ‘so, fuck it,’ she doesn’t
care now either. Does this explain the cleaver
(used mostly for animal meat) instead seen here
embedded in an ex-lover’s skull? It could.
Things would have had to have gotten drastic at an early
age. No one can really say. Maybe she just got one
too many black eyes, and picking up the blade was
easier than packing the suitcase, filling up the sedan.
Lips that flip and hair that stuns leaves you wooed.
She could care less, the careless wanderer
of love-worlds. This is her day and she’s more
goddess than human here,
and now you notice how the lamps turn her hair
into halo; how her face profiles perfectly; how
deep you are into herself. It defies grammar how
she greets and meets your friends and family;
there: they’re stricken with a presence that needs
no introduction. Beats me how you’ve survived.
Maybe her gaze is a drug and you’re an addict.
Maybe she’ll mark you for life and then fly off.
I lasted 9 months roughly, more alive than never.
Happy birthday, Lovely; we’re still birds of a feather.
Slumping from one day to the next
I miss you hard and slow. Everyday
or, nearly everyday into my thoughts
you come and go. It’s toxic, I know.
But stop the hate and, wait. Remember
we used to laugh at Harlem together.
Friends of a feather, birds together,
we’d wreck streets and sidewalks with
a madman’s chemistry. How you’d laugh
even though my jokes were Dad in nature.
I don’t miss your touch or kisses, or
whatever, the sex in bathrooms or on futons,
but Jesus, your voice, and the kind way
we’d eat sushi on a Thursday. Godzilla roll
and more. What I wouldn’t give to see you in my doorway,
ready to talk, then pass. You’d offer me info on your life,
nothing more. We’d hug, then, through that door. Bye girl!
Haha. I promise: I loved you more.
Hope you hold a knife on your body,
in a boot or
on a belt loop.
Flaunt life loudly the way you do and
people will shame you on this end
and grope you on the other. Slash it.
But be honest in your ripping. Do not
go down gripping onto
fear, lies, the awful anxieties the honest
despise. Enjoy the
jaunt, kiss haters hard, and turn a cheek
to those that don’t deserve. Better to
be better than bitter.
I wish I would have witnessed
for real, not just as we waited
for a bus. It would play in slow
my head. Maybe I could’ve convinced
you to get sheet tousled with me,
in bed, or on the ground, around
and near a couch or other place
of rest. But it’s for the best.
You moved molasses-like with
a mere twirl. Imagine me as
witness to full on writhing, vertical
or the other kind. Hung ups would
be worsening. As of now, stuff gets
healed, we’re healing then.