Keep asking cause you’ve smbitten me.
If they were secure as me, they’d be free laughing hysterically underneath the foldout bed here with me,
Crazy thing, finding the perfect between extremes:
listens / disappears / won’t shut up / “Yes we know you’re here.”
How many sucker souls daily get seduced by your curiosity?
Tell me and keep asking, too, ’cause you’ve smbitten me.
Could I love this way? Is your interest real?
Yeah, but
could I get over the jealousy
of your interest–in all the other Mr. Mysterys?
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.
Its creators–us
I barely know tonight this guy
that stupidity could only buy
stay up, tire my inhibitions
till the pants
drop the emotions
penetrate the head
of a lifeless body flailing on the bed?
don’t make it, I unmade it, I’ll lie in it,
let the fluids flow, the chemicals collide
into the creature we love as much as we hate its creators.
When I found out they were humans
I never wanted to rape girls that got close enough to love,
unlike middle-school crushes and models’ airbrushes
that dreams are made of,
if I know you, I wouldn’t want to know you–biblically, that is:
imagining you bouncing and wincing upon my waist
if I tasted your dreams–your heart,
nothing else would tempt my tongue?
well, at least anytime soon.
Like the Guy that never got married
Running toward darkness
looking for someone who doesn’t have to smile,
searching for a mirror
so not to change myself–
too lazy to make time for devotions or
do I really want a wife that won’t be praying for me?
do I martyr myself with delusions of sacrifice:
breaking covenants and burning the cow
I’ve been given quite a few after all
to write poems about
if dreams are standards, this is a nightmare
can two reserved persons fall in love
and still love the world
like the Guy that never got married
In the case of the life of the mother
“I guarantee! or your friendship back”
he promises
lay down your problems and back IN my paper tray,
I’ll journal, write now
and male them OUT next Wednesday’s
child is full of Roe, love is murder?
choosing some
aborting hundreds of little verses
and I consented to everyone, every time,
“Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?” Trying to pick up
the paper whispers in my ear
that my pen is running up and down the page–
just like men, no commit,
my uterus expands for another and
halts its periodic ink
for my beautiful child.
The recent mail
if I had just discovered a fresh letter from the post,
there would be more pining for
I would love you more if you had introduced yourself yesterday
or if I knew less grace less often
I don’t see much of you,when I do, we don’t talk.
I’m running–I promise I love you
and I would tell the pagans this–
if I saw some every once and a while.
Should I fake my joy?
should I fake my joy for
I don’t want to hurt
others when they come around for
it’s my birthday, and I’m supposed to
laugh and dance and
love, but it’s so hard to
fake with this hanging over my
head; they won’t like it if I
sulk,
are they my friends?
for they try to cheer me up
and tell me how great I am.
Parenthetical thoughts of the future
having everything except the thing wanted the most,
(when we meet we won’t deserve each other
couldn’t have it any other way)
veneer paneling doesn’t splitter your skin, you say,
hiding away, some crevice, somewhere dark–
waiting in passive beauty only the living (are beautiful, you know?)
daily strive, ah, the alive, falling and failing,
and getting back up again,
haven’t met you, maybe I have but no doubt I will have–before we meet
because you are no ideal, no goddess (I know)
wouldn’t want one (for keeps),
so in love with our destitution (are you, too?)
–
we should still strive, reach each other,
or I’ll give up before beginning,
sitting here like you today.
One of these days
we’ll watch movies, play monopoly,
I’ll be the terrier, you the cavalry,
we’ll sing and dance under clouds of rain,
not so similar songs, but the tune’ll be the same,
there’ll be reading of writing of long ago,
maybe quoting of passages we’ll always know:
we’ll bear the hearts we hide from public eye
to another that understands the why
there’s been cowering in corners too long–afraid,
afraid of what our Creator has blessed and made,
you’ll arrive on a north wind, I on a south,
will meet together and forget life without,
for I sense a change in the air,
but no vane heralds quite where.
or who or where it will take us to