Fucking attack me

Fucking attack me.
I want your mouth against mine,
like all the oxygen in the world
has left except for what remains in my lungs.

I want your teeth and tongue on my neck,
writing a blue black sonnet
on my carotid.

Your right hand
will grip both of my own,
holding me up,
keeping me down,
as I submit in every way I can.

Your left hand is a gentle contrast,
tracing whispers on my face and ribs.

Make me forget.

Turn my world into nothing
but this heat, and this pain, and this love.

Make me forget
the outside, the front door, the hallway,
so that we are here in this bed
and we are all that exists.

Kiss me.
There.
And there.

Learn my scars and heal them
with your lips.
Make me believe I’m holy.

Make me forget.

***

Originally appeared in Cacophony (2023)

Never again

Never again, we say.

            BOOM.

Tall and broad shouldered,
square of jaw and deep of voice:
Never again, they promise.

We will seek out the shadows
and we will bring light, they say.

            BOOM.

And together we will watch
as cities burn—
fire was always a source of warmth,
anyway.

            BOOM.

Don’t breathe, they warn.
We can’t control the poison in the air.
Don’t go too fast;
a bullet will come quicker than asphyxiation.

And today we stand here,
breathing in the cold, dead void of space
that we once thought we would travel
before we abandoned another horizon
without oxygen.

            BOOM.

Are you buried under the rubble?
Good, they say, you’re safer there.

Have you been trapped in your home by debris
while your world burns?
Shut your eyes.
The smoke might damage them.

            BOOM.

Death isn’t instant.
Each second ticking by leaves you with hope
for a savior.

(Was it was supposed to be you? they sneer.
Were you too busy needing to be saved?)

And today we stand here,
bleeding out and wondering how long
a thousand cuts take to lose so much blood.
It’s so much less than you expected.

Is it going dark, now?
Continue on.
We bring light, and haven’t you heard
what’s at the end of the tunnel?

The fires burn, and burn, and burn.
And we burn with them.

            BOOM.

      BOOM.

BOOM.

***

Published by Rising Phoenix Review, (2020)

Make my body a shrine

I need help because
for the first time
words are failing me.
My pen has run dry
and the typewriter keys are just a jumbled pile on the floor.

So I must make due.

I kiss Neruda into your collarbone
and think of cherry trees.

I lick Carver into your mouth
and promise, beloved, no early morning talks;
no one can reach us now.

I bite Rumi against your shoulder and 
let you devour me in this violent world—

You make my body a shrine
and I strive to stop yearning so quiet
so you know that yes, I, too—
Yes, I, too—

I don’t say,
Here are my carotid and my aortic and my femoral,
tender from your fingers because 
yes, I am here to breathe for you (yes); because
yes, my flesh is here to be the canvas
    for your bruising teeth and tongue (yes); because
yes, because I don’t care what you do (yes)
if afterwards you press
your lips, gentle, to my skin.

You stole my words,
with your breath, with your mouth—
Now I’m forced to borrow,
to steal,
but if you keep looking at me like that while I do
then (yes) I’ll keep pretending to be a poet.

***

Edited version of “Lost my words,” published in the 27^th Poetry Ink Anthology by Moonstone Press, 2023

Power Trio

Three guys walk into a bank
wearing cheap plastic rock star masks
there was Elvis, Gene Simmons and Ringo Starr
customers stood in line and
laughed at them

It was the day after Halloween
month end deposits
rent payments
welfare checks
Elvis swiveled his hips and flashed
white hot lead
shot the underpaid security guard dead

Well the laughter all stopped
and everybody dropped
Elvis covered the tellers
Gene Simmons swagged the merchants on the floor
while Ringo watched the door

Elvis shucked “thankyouvurrymuch”
Gene told everyone they should be honored he’s robbing them
and Ringo nervously tapped his feet

A few beats later you could hear a siren wailing
backbeat later a tear gas canister came crashing and sailing
Elvis moaned, “We’re caught in a trap,
we can’t walk out”

Shot Gene Simmons in the face and
his tongue flew off
then he shout Ringo in the neck
ever run riverrrun jugular fountain
then he put the gun in his mouth pulled the trigger
and went down to the edge of Lonely Street

to the one on the cover of the men’s magazine 

keep your boobs out there in that impossible world    
they look good under that glittering sun and those enticing palm trees   
though obviously fake they make absolute sense
in an engorged with wealth but starved of humanity kind of way

I’ve got enough problems on my plate
with hospital bills out the ass
and a balloon payment due on that PayDay loan
I can’t afford any of your half naked reality

in my world your golden tatas of temptation 
stick out like the burning bush in a barren desert 
I know better than to listen when they talk to me

keep those holy mounds out there in the land of action movies
where the dicks are small and the air is toxic
I’ll spend my last ten bucks on lottery tickets instead 

No Apologies

There’s the sublime comedown 
of easing
into a bath 
of soft warm blood.
The seeping gore 
is yours for once.
Your immolation is the closest thing 
to an apology 
but you’ll leave no note of remorse.
You’ve read all the books
but still, you can’t explain why
you need libraries 
of bodies 
quietly etched in chalk.
Alone 
you’ve done your best 
to put a dent in the crowd 
but it’s just so vast
and the living are persistent—
teeming like hair lice in city schools.
You’re no idealist
bent upon a mission,
but working with blood
has certainly provided 
a purpose.
But now, you’re ready to plunge 
six feet deep 
into a rabbit hole
full of flesh.
You’re ready to vanish 
like a whisper 
from a hard-won hell.

Pegging Queens

They were on the news again —
the objects in the sky.
There was footage of 2 hovering
above a cornfield in New Jersey,
then a reporter was interviewing
2 guys on the street.

One of the guys said, “I did see them, 
yeah! They disappeared. They looked 
like drones. I looked up in the air 
and I saw them and I said to Joe
over here” — he looked at the other guy — 
“‘There ain’t no way those are planes.’”

The other guy (Joe) said,
“I think it’s aliens, to be honest with you.”

I said, “Hmm,” and unlocked 
my phone. I was just remembering
that my friend Dave had sent me
something earlier that morning: 
an invitation to a Facebook group 
called, “NEW JERSEY MYSTERY 
DRONES – LET’S SOLVE IT!” 

I accepted it now, then started going 
through the posts. There was one 
by a guy with a long Santa Claus beard 
that read, “THE DRONES ARE SPRAYING 
CHEMICALS NOW! IMPORTANT! VIDEO 
IN COMMENTS.” I watched the video,
which showed an airborne plane leaving
some normal-looking contrails behind it. 

There was another post by the same guy
that said, “This is obviously Russia
trying to steal our technology,”
and included a photo of a drone
suspended above an empty field
with no technology in sight
besides the drone itself.

I said, “Hmm,” and went through more posts.

A person with a beagle as a profile picture
said, “The Pentagon just shot down 
an Iranian mothership. Link in comments.”
I looked at the link in the comments.
The name of the article was “PENTAGON
SHOOTS DOWN IRAN MOTHERSHIP CLAIMS.”

I watched a few more videos of the objects. 
Some looked like planes. Some looked like drones.
Some looked disc-shaped or cigar-shaped.

Then I noticed this post from a ufologist
that had been shared to the group several times.
It read, “At the risk of creating a panic,
I want to be transparent with you all:
these are not drones. These crafts 
are being piloted by inter-dimensional beings 
from interstellar civilizations. They are peaceful.”

I said, “Hmm,” and clicked to see the comments
on the original post.  Someone asked,
“Peaceful? Have you never heard of anal probes?”

The ufologist didn’t respond.

Someone else asked,
“What do the aliens look like?”

The ufologist didn’t respond to this either,
but a person with the moon
as their profile picture did:
“Pale skin. Humanoid. Usually female.”

I said, “Hmm,” and went out into the yard.
I dug a half-broken lawn chair out
from a pile of trash behind the garage
and sat on it. The sky was cloudy, 
but it could have been cloudier.

I was optimistic. I wanted magic. I wanted 
to be the least xenophobic human. I wanted 
pale-skinned goth babes and anal stimulation.

I tilted my head back and waited.

Zoo

The moon throbs 
just so, like a cock ring 
or Nadia’s dildo. I’m spangled 
and dreamy and drinking Blue Heaven,
hot mouth, azure slur. The trees
are green mansions. 
I keep mishearing poems.  
If you see Kay 
tell him we’re playing Telephone
with Radovan 
and Lady Mondegreen.
Pattie is boo-
fucking-hoo 
about some boy 
who looks like Susanna Hoffs. 
The poets are beefed up 
performing Coney Island 
and San Francisco
dead mothers
faintings and blackouts. 
I take my temperature with your tongue
damned to hell. 
I tell the lion that the Brazilian stole my bush. 
Is it weird to go to the zoo alone?
I drink Lime-A-Rita at the art auction
talk to a ceramist about Sweden’s moose migration
wrench nonsense into sense
mishear someone calling my name
read the label under a painting of Christ  
as Gladly, the cross-eyed bear.
Fuck, is that Susanna Hoffs? 
I feel like I’m dying 
when someone asks me 
if I’ve ever read 
“How to Write an Avant-Garde Poem”
and even worse
when she says 
she’s asking for a friend. 

Geography of Love

That the geography of my beloved guide me
It is a truth like a temple
Presenting me, on our wedding day
The value of a sigh, and a gasp
Of a she donkey and an Ass.
Before all things discovered
That her love nest
With its hair and signs too
Showing me that girl’s prick
Which I thought was big
But was tiny
Leaving me after sucking
Her noble nipples
Remembering in the books I had read
That the clitoris and the nipples
Have dazzled old men, young men
Nobles and commoners
Priests and friars
Sacristans, countrymen
Soldiers, courtiers
White, black, or yellow
Slobbering fools and idiots.
Brazenly, and making out
Conjugating the verb “to copulate” 
With the Kama Sutra
Hindu book
I was inserting it into her vagina
Adorned with colostrum
Begging her to watch attentively
What I was putting inside her
Unfolding her large lips
And her small lips
Telling me something like “I can’t.”
Opening her mouth wide
Pure, clean, smooth
I inserted Quartz Agate
Bauxite, Blende, Flint
Sylvina, Limonite, Chalcopyrite
Her vagina remaining
Like a smoky Quartz
Fake Topaz
Hyacinth of Compostela, Agate
Which pleased us both
She exclaimed:
-I’ll make a very pleasant observation:
Friend Fucking Dick, Love first
¡Who could conceive
That a faggot like you
would Illustrate my Cunt with his cock!
Then, with a hoarse sound
I mounted her from behind like an Ass
Forming highs and lows
Strong different movements
Defining Love
As it should be defined
Pouring out my audacity
Against her neck
She driving certain resonant winds
Into my terrifying balls
Exclaiming:
-Thank God
We both know how to bray.

Poem for a Man Who Fucks the Ice Fishing Hole

Was it the auger drilling down that did it for you?
Surely it couldn’t have been these freezing temperatures,
so many things become an indoor sport up in these parts.
So imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon you this morning.
Watched you face down, pants around the ankles.  Slamming into the ice.
Slurring your dirty talk across a trackless waste.
You think you’d be alone for such activities, but you’d be wrong.
And now, there is this poem for a man who fucks the ice fishing hole.
Making up with vigour, what he lacks in style points.
A few of his swimmers turning the local ice fishing derby on its head.
Mayor Kickbacks is going to have to introduce new standards.
Though this one seems pretty locked to the cause.