a woman asked me
the other day why
i write poetry
i told her because
it is the only thing
that ever excited
me
other than the
possibility of
murder for
a living
she laughed like
i was joking
when i informed
her that at eighteen
i realized it was
either scribbling
in a notebook
or serial killer,
she started to
realize this was
a can of worms
that never should
have been opened
It whispers, burn the fucking house down,
They don’t really love you;
No one ever will. You are entirely insufferable.
Burn the fucking house down, you can make it look like an accident,
They will never know.
He returns from plummeting depths,
A deranged acolyte, skull filled with dead leaves and purgatory,
Love is piercing agony, thoughts of being alone, but
pleading to snip off their toes with wire cutters,
Simultaneously begging for release, redemption and symbiosis,
Just burn the fucking house down
you are already
trapped
inside.
“Anything can be art” she said as she
packed her shit, I looked at her and
said “garbage isn’t art” we argued
“Well he makes me happy,” I took a drag
of my cigarette and told her “everyone
deserves happiness,” she gave me a dumbfounded
look as she packed up the panties she never wore for me, she probably pranced around that cocksuckers “studio” in them, and they probably fucked on a canvas getting paint everywhere like a shitty 80’s movie, I said “I’ve never seen those” and she said “I just grabbed them from the sale rack”, bullshit, I thought as I popped open a beer and brought it to my lips, she looked at me and said “I’m leaving you because you drink too much and you are an asshole, you never gave a fuck about me” I looked at her and responded “this beer doesn’t take phone calls all hours of the night, this beer doesn’t say we are friends, I drink it and it satisfies me, something you have never done”
she yelled “fuck you” and left
She left me for an artist.
Point. Look at him, isn’t he pathetic?
Grin. Laugh in his general direction.
He seems to lack any self awareness.
Some people shouldn’t even exist.
“But they’re there to maintain parity.”
No, he’s making me uncomfortable.
Slander. Poor posture, dead eyes.
There’s something very wrong with us.
Doesn’t it make you sick? I’m sick.
Quick. He’s hurting himself, let’s watch.
Grab the popcorn, no, the lubricant.
You. Point and shoot. You, say cheese.
“what happened last night” she said
as we lay hungoverin my bed;
“what do you mean what happened,
you don’t remember?” I asked;
“no, I actually don’t” she said laughing;
“what the fuck? you don’t remember
us getting home, taking off our clothes
and me fucking you on the couch?”;
she laughed again and said: “no, I don’t,
I was wasted, I’m sorry”;
“well, I fucked the shit out of you” I said,
“it was the best sex you’ve ever had”;
“oh ok, that’s good then” she replied.
I rolled over, and tried going back to sleep.
All the washing machines, in America, explode
on a Saturday at 12pm. Laundry day, ruined.
The wives must buy their husbands new underwear
and husbands must buy their wives new dresses.
Children go sockless in their sneakers.
You hoarded all the clean underwear in the house.
You wore that skirt you’d never wear.
Neighbors helped neighbors pull buttons from the walls.
There were only two casualties: Old Whiskers
who would lie on the Spencer’s machine
to feel the heat and Marjorie,
who liked to stand atop her washing machine,
on bulky-cycle, doing yoga. She said it was good
for her thighs. Everyone is left
with soapy holes in the walls
and scraps of wet cotton, rayon, and jeans.
On Monday, people wear bathing suits,
sarongs, and their church slacks to work.
With time, clothes become disposable,
made of decomposable paper. Unfortunate
when it rains. Dryers, drying nothing,
are end tables. Now,
there are no space capsules for young kids
to stick their dogs into.
Sears says it’s feminism.
Maytag blames the Russians.
Christians say, the nudists. Entropy ensues.
National Guardsmen carry metal carcasses
from people’s homes. Red Cross begins making shirts
out of plastic bags and then, naturally, the fashion industry
collapses. China cuts trade deals,
textiles are now irrelevant and plastic is no longer a problem.
Neither are nipples in public. The media melts down
because there is nothing left to sell.
You begin to forget what it was like
to have socks on your feet.
You forget what soft cotton feels like on your skin.
People put money in their mattresses.
You’re left with rusty water stains on the wall,
left wondering what was holding it all together
to begin with.
there’s something filthy about me
that makes you reluctant to dance
and there’s something pure about you
that makes me want to corrupt
i fucking despise everything about you
and you probably don’t like me too much either
you wake up smiling at the possibilities
knowing it’s all been laid out for you
i killed a man yesterday
just for mentioning your name
and mailed you an envelope
with a small piece of his heart inside
you thought it was pretentious
and sent it back my way with a bloody tampon
i knew then it was true love
so i went to the graveyard
and secured a spot overlooking the street
in case we bore each other
when our bodies are placed in the ground
…I want hands deep in my geography,
memorizing where it hurts
to trail through me, pulling at my weeds
watching flowers bloom, from my chest cavity
want oiled fingers, on my butchered rose
tongues eating at me
like they’re starving
but see, sometimes i’m soft…
and I picture us laughing
with beers to our lips
drunk kisses,
and falling asleep
till the sun creeps in
you wake me
with no morning regret
just a glistening sweat
of the hours you’ve spent
soaking in all my debts
that I’ll never pay off
at least
not yet…
honey’s eyes could be the color of the sea
if it were boiling
she’s got a delicate step, fast feet built for
back streets, legs up on the backseat
all the world is an audience for fresh meat
they say you can’t move your body when you’re dreaming
the only time for peace is when honey’s sleeping
time beats a drum and his breath smells like rum
she’s ready to run back pockets are breathing
see you can’t breathe and swallow at the same time
honey’s done enough swallowing and white lines
thin lines between lust and heat
but honey’s gotta eat
Frigid misery,
grumpy and grumbling
all the way to frozen train tracks,
my blistered heels eroding further
in stiff boots, the flesh below ankle
scraping off to reveal the tender circle
of red-raw reality, blood rising to the surface
of skin, eagerly awaiting puncture, an opening
of the floodgates.
Trudging along to begin the workweek
with stinging sores, the skies withholding sunshine,
another grey morning devoid of substance,
(nothing left to gain, nothing left
to glorify)
January’s conflicting resolutions failing
to satiate the need for progress,
thousands of varying voices
echoing within the cranium,
indicating what needs to be
done, what ought to be
done.
Each step brings with it a wince and
worry, the expectation of sticky scabs
and bloody socks.
(The wind chill freezes cheeks,
numbing rosy noses and stifling all sound.)
The entirety of my aspirations
have convened in this moment,
and the train hasn’t even come yet.
