Sunday, March 17, 2013


Always left the streets with poets
no wait
there was a dancer too

but love
never finds its way
through these streets

Always we sit
that one over there with her five-timer smoke
screaming break up and blood
to anyone who cares to fuck

there is a sad way of things
deception in the breadth and lengths of history
a hospitality in our beds
as if we could
shut ourselves
to the horror of unlove

because this is what happens
when you hang words
on the window
in the closet
between you and space
on some God forsaken drunk night
or non drunk night (for those of us who cannot afford it)

between the breasts of a woman
and in the boy's pocket
my boy

does it matter
if we run our fingers over his
familiar body?
If we moan like all the others
or bite like all the others
but never cum the same
or NOT AT ALL (Let me scream it clearly)

does it matter
if i kiss you kiss him he kisses her she kisses me to kiss her?


the lovers form,
a halo,
a wreath,
a cuff,
the ring of a condom,
(or lack thereof for those of you who like it that way)
and exchange beds,
shirts, (with buttons to undo or rub)
and merge into each other like bad stories
that i could never see with my eyes open to accidents of the anatomically correct heart.

To let a clam spread over your back,
like the wings of an angel, dead to the world
is a wonderful thing.
To sit without floods in your eyes,
and still soft lips,
is too.

I was not calm when all those words
died like semen in my hands or mouth
(Take my picture, I'm your grrl or maybe his)

The taste will fade eventually.
So will the face.

I wish I was raised differently,

and taught to spit.