An Explanation of Lucy

Lucy was a poem to fear 
in her studied calm, 
deceptive as violence 
disguised as artful play. 

The things she fed you 
might have been poison 
but you ate them 
without concern.

Lucy in her cabin on the lake 
welcomed strangers 
in her lyric way, 
unsavory and soft,
until softness was not an option, 
and her metric rhythm 
gave away the game.

Lucy loved the world 
with bread and roses,
and so her nature 
was not like most.

When she kissed others
she meant it as much
as when she kissed you,
and you took your beatings
willingly.

Lucy in her pretty dress
in her cabin by the lake
was a story to fear. 

She was every possibility 
and the promise of a moment,
a bag of small secrets
too beautiful to be true

Pronto

nothing like a new war
to scintillate your porno

dialing between stations
the radio between my ears

taking to your wily fingertips
in urgent advertisement

for friendly flag-waving 
fascist import agencies

I know the drinks are stronger
than smoke in surround sound

elevating our mutual mirage
in a strong-armed sweaty clench

nothing like a slice
of brains and sphincter

delivered pronto
to your foxhole

A Motion

The moonlit bastard of the city
oppressive in its phallic skyscrapers
insidious intent through its windows

I guarantee you are wasting away somewhere
ignoring painful actions,
windswept hair dragging along the
sex-ragged floor where once
we fucked in a rage.

Emerging at South Street from
the orange train on Broad Street
I am blinded by starsigns, overcome
with the saliva of strange women
who kissed me badly in a furious sex-craze.

Overcome with joy at this new freedom;
sweltering frozen asphalt of Philadelphia;
sweat and fluids on the couch cushions;
do you have more for me
than a degradation or
a motion?

Summer Pickup

We met on the only 
hot night in Seattle–July 1993, 
the year summer never came. 

Both of us at the Blue Moon, 
drinking pints and checking out 
the other drunks. 

A married acquaintance
brought you to my table, 
playing matchmaker
after you hit on her first. 

You gave me the once-over,
spilled your beer several times, 
and followed me to my car
to smoke a couple of bowls.

“Prepare for the ride of your life,”
I said, returning the pipe to
my ashtray. “I have a lover,”

you replied, “but she’s
more of a friend, really.” 

Back at your place,
you played Annie Lennox
and Bryan Ferry on a boom box
and gave me the ride of my life:

one that would rage
on and off, for a year. 

Sometimes, I miss the
deranged hubris of my youth: 
that unflinching belief
in my invincibility. 

On the other hand, it’s nice
to sit home with a cold beer 
and a bag of good cannabis.

No one can accuse me of
never doing anything rash.
I’ll always have memories, 
and an endless series 
of upcoming lifetimes
to fuck up even more. 

The Pretty Young Lady in the Black Wig

The pretty young lady in the black wig 
And I 
Got into a conversation 
And during the conversation
She told me she liked to collect dead things

And when I asked her what dead things she collected
The pretty young lady in the black wig
Became disinterested
And began talking to someone else

So at that point I surmised
That one of the dead things
The pretty young lady in the black wig 
Had no interest in collecting

Was ugly old
Me.

Sublimation

He thought he heard
some kind of muffled hiss
like the pop of a carp’s swim-bladder

He fell nine stories
smeared upon the asphalt
without so much as
a ‘holy shit’

Passers-by formed
in an orderly circle
staring down at the sight

Ice-cream cone like the holy grail
in the hand of a big-assed woman
greedy licks with elongated tongue
heavy with the plaque of decay

At such times
the wrecked remains
are abandoned beyond
all perception

The departing cool is pale
light as the breath
that fades from
pink to white

Piss trickles down
from under her skirt
wrapped around
broken thigh bone

Bicycle tires
and shoe prints
strange jewels
in a pool of blood

I Love It All

At night she kisses my wrist
where there used to be a dagger
trailing along the skin of a snail,
I thought I saw you downtown, 
the girl I loved. 

A friend of mine
tried to die by suicide,
thirty blue pills on the tongue resting,
a tongue which never touched mine.

Tonight I am at a party
in West Philadelphia
with a woman I used to
deeply share a love with.
We are sharing a drink
in a stranger’s kitchen.

I watched another woman
the night before remove
all of her clothing and say
I want you to fuck me.

There are too many main characters 
in this story.

never a prize at the end

we’re mice 

hunting the 
cheese

but there never 
is a prize at the 
end

only death

i had a friend 
tell me that we’ll 
spend all our lives 
as men trying to 
get back in where 
we came out of

i chuckled and 
told him i was a
c-section baby

he offered his 
condolences

i wondered if that 
meant i would look 
for the ones that 
were into anal

Like a Cigarette Should

In the 1960s, news came on 
at 5 and 10: then midnight, 
to recap the same stories. 

Your parents always said something 
disparaging about Nixon, 
before turning their attention 
towards the consumption of

as many Benson and Hedges 100s
and Schlitz Malt Liquor tall boys
as their bodies could stand. 

Cigarette commercials 
featured grizzled cowboys, 
glamorous women, and

dapper men with black eyes 
who refused to switch 
from their favorite brand.

You liked beer commercials better:
Hamm’s, with its cartoon vistas 
of pine trees and tumbling rapids, 

and Lowenbrau’s promise 
of eternal friendship. In 1971, 

cigarette commercials were banned, 
while beer ads continued. It was
still legal to advertise smoking 

in magazines, billboards, 
and other forms of media.

Sunday newspaper supplements
overflowed with cigarette ads. 
It seemed like consumers
smoked more than ever.

Fifty years later, 
fewer people smoke, 
but almost everybody drinks. 

Beer ads have become 
sophisticated and boring, 
while folks die from cirrhosis.

Advertisers still want you 
to buy lethal products, but
they read the side effects
in ten-second soundbites,

or not at all. In the meantime, 
your body weakens a little each day. 

Still, you miss those commercials: 
the innocence of addiction,
the promise of eternal bliss,
and those goddamn pine trees.

She Let Me Adore Her

They say ‘The struggle is real’
But let’s talk about the spell 
The dark magic only works though, 
until you realize your own– 

The spell is broken, shock takes over 
and you leave with your lessons 
learned. You weren’t truly aware before, 
beauty and darkness are partners in crime 

You suddenly feel strange  
about enjoying all those horror movies 
to the extreme. You’re always extreme
because you feel things deeply

That’s how you she was able to spot you, 
suck you off and suck your spirit dry 
Deserts envy you, a cactus double-takes; 
your thirst’s a bitch, your heart, a prick

*** 

From The Ones Who Adore Your Veins, RaVenGhost Press