Will they love me if I comment?

I will love if she comments (so many)
times and sights un-seen,
climbing mountains and sipping beers Flickr before my eye
and ewe sit behind a webbed and woolen curtain
following, descending, my stumbling Bloc,
stares into a liquid crystal reflection,
for nuclear arms are easier to hug than bloggers.

So dirty, you want to spit out your gum

when all the human love isn’t enough
and you wonder if you’ve experienced love
when the ball point runs dry and
the creative juices no long serve up mixed drinks
intoxicating the whole page until
the end looks close and thoughts of self-mutilation and guilt
arrive on a red light subway and consumes like African fire ants.

Schadenfreude

“You like Thai?”
I laugh. This guy is wantin’ it bad.
His goods clear customs.
“Yeah, I like spicy.”
Waiting. . . Waiting. . .for the pickup line
Still waiting.
He smiles. Pulls out a pack of cigs
“One of my co-workers buys fifteen cartons when he visits his mom in Canada and sells ‘em for five at work”
“Cig dealers? That’s a riot.”
He looks around. So I am not only woman in the room.
Self-confidence is sexy; self-affinity is sexier.
“You seen those Brazilian murals down the street?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
“I’ve got a smoke. I’m sorry.”
Yeah, you’re sorry–you just got here;
And I’m not watching your drink.

Turns and steps outside in front of the window;
talks to two tanks, and a Frenchi;
coughs looking at me looking back at the empty glass;
wraps himself around the Frenchi.

What kinda girl did you think I was?

Frenchi crosses back across the window–alone.
Smile.