Dance

Dance. Nicole was always telling me
what to do,
orchestrating something wild
that she called fun.

If I didn’t do it,
she’d badger me, threaten me,
go into mini rages.

You’d better or else. You’d better
or I’ll tell your dad what you did.

Half the time I couldn’t even remember 

what I did.
She was persuasive and conniving,
convincing
and beautiful in all the ways I thought 

mattered.

I liked to look at blood.
Nicole would tell my dad. How sadistic
I was at age five asking to see
the cut my cousin got off the edge 

of a rusty bike with no seat.

The family would hold me 

under a microscope like a disease, disgust
written all over their faces

 as if they didn’t want to see the blood too.

At age six I’d seen a whole movie called,
Kids, about how you get AIDS.
Up in her room with the door locked, 

Nicole told me
if I ever even thought about having sex I’d die. 

I never told my dad.

Truth or dare.
Nicole demanded. I stopped taking dares 

because once
she wanted me to dance naked
in front of her
upstairs window with the lights on
while a car drove by.
I had to do it—
or I’d be banned from her room forever.

I didn’t want that 

because then I’d be stuck downstairs listening
to the grown-ups play poker, 

surrounded by clouds of cigar smoke,
smelling of whiskey while Nicole taunted me, 

calling me names
in passing, like a ghost whispering on the stairs 

or from behind a curtain.

I was stuck for days listening
to my dad’s wife talk
mad shit about my mom.
They’d see me
in the shadows and pretend
I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t hear.

I wanted to go home.
Nicole would say, it’s fun. Dance.

***

Previously published in Red Fez

Death by a Thousand Cunts

The Chinese
had Lingchi 
used to slowly cut 
strips of skin
from the body
with a blade

then of course there was
the Spanish tickler
thumbscrews
the rack
& brodequin

most would agree
Western Europe
has moved on
since then
become more civilized 

but here in Italy
if you’re not careful
they will still send you 
to the department 
of motor vehicles

and if you’ve been really bad

to the post office

After Work Today and No Work Tomorrow

Watching the dust particles sparkle in the shaft of light
Coming in through the one crooked blind,
Looking for a clean glass and finding one
Along with a clean knife, a clean plate
With the music playing and the terrors of the day
Ceding to the horrors 
Of the night.
With hours to go,
I begin.

The songs become one another,
The dust settles,
I sit and I listen, I watch,
I wait.
Always, I wait
With my sense of justice
In a four way marriage
With my destitution, my loyalty
And my desire
To escape.
I sit here
Listening to music,
Writing poems,
Thinking about things.
Better than working,
Of that I am certain.

The dust falls like gray gutter snow,
Sparkling in that shaft of light
That does not quite reach me
Where I sit alone
Thinking about how everything
Is nothing.
Nothing
At all.
The camera pans along the circus,
Moving quickly past
The crying clown.
No one wants to see that.
I run my fingers along the glass
As one song becomes another
And then
Another.

I turn out 
The light.

Rivals

With all the new laws being passed,
And always being somewhat of an adventurer,
With a degree in Botany and farmers as ancestors,
As well as murderers,
Both parents being huge potheads,  
She decided to grow her own.

Her strain called Mantoid,
After the insect that consumes its mate.

Sexual cannibalism.
She smiles when she says it, stoned or not.

She feels like an astronaut,
Trailblazing the Cosmos without leaving Earth,
A flavor, a taste, a high, she’d kill for.

And has.

The plants grow from strategically cracked skulls.

Distraction 

When I say fuck me harder
I mean press both thumbs
into my throat until
you blemish me
violet violent. 

Restrain me
because my skin
is crawling with itches—allergic 
to my own past and it’s begging
me to run from too gentle hands. 

Coat me in syrup that stings
my nose with sweetness
to  camouflage the shame
I carry around in baggage
exceeding weight limits. 

I want my body to bear
the challenge my mind has been 
battling, seconds tick by
on the clock but never tick
towards emancipation. 

ARACHNE

Arachne 
shuffles off,
her eyes on
the horizon, 
to hang herself; 
to find a 
neglected 
corner 
to dream 
in the dark 
of the mind 
a weave 
to catch herself 
to herself 
to feed – 
self-murder 
ever 
self-involved. 
This time
so wholly 
as to change 
her shape 
to show death 
to be no more 
than a weave 
toward an ever 
receding 
offing.

Sherri

Luckily his spell of love on her  
lasted only a minute  
because she soon recognized
its numerous bullshit layers  
when he made her sell drugs
in downtown Cincinnati.  

She never had a mother 
who taught her to sharpen her knives 
and nails before they would dig for food, 

and her father never told her 
to wear her Wonder Woman costume  
underneath her chic work blazer,  

and he snarled: “Hey, whatssup girly girl! 
Show off some more skin— 
so the druggies could get their hooks 
on the merchandise  
if they’re all staring at you.” 

She, an acolyte and true believer
of Lifetime Television, 
knew that true love didn’t result 
from illegal acts of vengeance, 
and, thanks to these shows, 
she kept a knife in her cowboy boot. 

‘Cause she wasn’t going to die 
in these streets selling wares of meth 
& pills; big cities never did give her 
a thrill—if she got out of there, 
she’ll tiptoe back to Texas 

but she left him two souvenirs: 
a bloody, deep slash in  
one of his perfect pecs, 
the same ones that first lit 
her interest in him, 
and another in his side, 
which snuffed him out 

all because 
he said, 
“You’re nothing to me
but a candy hooker.” 

Jasper

Old Irving Park,
Chicago neighborhood
Jasper lives in a garret
no bigger than a single bed.
Jasper, 69, clouds of smoke
Lucky Strike unfiltered cigarettes.
He dips Oreo cookies in skim milk.
Six months ago 
the state revoked
his driver’s license-
between the onset 
of macular degeneration,
gas at $4.65 a gallon,
and late-stage emphysema,
life for Jasper has stalled out
in the middle lane
like his middle month
social security check, it is gone.
There is nothing academic about Jasper’s life.
Today the mailbox journey is down
the spiraling stairwell; midway,
he leans against the wall.
Deep breathes from his oxygen tank.
Life is annoying with plastic tubes up his nose.
Relief, back in the attic, with just his oxygen tank,
his Chicago Cubs, losers, are playing
on his radio, WGN, 720 AM.
Equipment, enjoyment at last,
Jasper leans back in his La-Z-Boy recliner.
He reaches for a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.
Jasper grabs a lukewarm Budweiser beer from his mini-fridge.
Deep breathes, a match lite, near his oxygen tank.

The Meek Will Inherit Obsession

She orders discount lingerie online,
unboxes the pieces while he’s at the office.
Or golfing, or at happy hour,
or searching for more baseball cards
to clutter the spare room with. 

She wants to order a strap on
and peg him from behind.
She wants to be surprised
with a large anal plug lubed up, lights out. 
Be double penetrated in their hotel room
at her sister’s wedding.
Gagged so her parents can’t hear her
screaming behind remodeled walls. 

Instead, she sits pretty in mesh tops,
taking selfies in the bathroom mirror. 
Deleting all the evidence of her rebellion
before he returns to his throne. 

they had

this thing—
call it a bond,
a game,
their special secret 
moment.

he would only
phone her
when he was
blacked-out drunk.

they’d talk poetry,
philosophy,
art.

she 
was in love 
with his mind

and 
made him promise 
to never stop. 

this secret 
Jekyll and Hyde love affair 
went on for years.

when Jekyll
quit drinking,
however,

Hyde
stopped phoning—

breaking
a promise he
never made

to a woman
he couldn’t 
remember.

yet,
every time 
the phone rings
late at night

she never
forgets.