Category Archives: Poetry

fog

30 Friday Oct 2020

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Autumn. Bombs fall. No one has any fun.

Autumn. Your sister’s husband leaves for Prague

 

and she moves in, sharing our affection

and bed. A city under mountain fog

 

and war-time curfew. “You see how she is,”

you say, pulling her panties to her knees,

 

guiding me in. “It can’t be helped.” Her fizz-

slush-gush sound nothing like far-flung volleys

 

of gunfire. Autumn in Stepanakert.

Rockets pockmark. Bombs fall. Drawing closer.

 

Drawing near. “Yes ts’av yem sirum.” She boasts

of a constant pounding. “Make sister squirt,”

 

you say. “This way.” We three ghosts. “Make sister

cum.” It can’t be helped. We three horny ghosts.

][][

notes:

Stepanakert is the capital and the largest city of the Republic of Artsakh. As of yesterday (10/29/20) long-range Azerbaijani missiles fell on residential sections of the city, striking a maternity hospital and children’s center. In Armenian, «Ես ցավ եմ սիրում» (Yes ts’av yem sirum) translates into, “I love pain.”

cast

30 Friday Oct 2020

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I went to their church just once; to see how

their side lives. There will always be good girls

 

sitting with their parents thinking eyebrow

searing thoughts. Those who leave their bawdy curls

 

unfurled all morning bore me. It’s the kink

outside their temples and mosques, all those cast

 

out, that I call blood. Cousins. Eat me, drink

me, love me; come, make much of me. We’re vast

 

in our lusts. We own this. We’re not ashamed.

We don’t turn pale each time a strange tongue slips

 

in our ear. Let them fear us. Each crusade

of theirs has failed. Cousins, come. We’re named

 

this ours. We prophets of cocks, clits and lips.

Come home with me, blood. We’re all getting laid.

morozko

30 Friday Oct 2020

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Cold hands. Warm cunt. Standing on your porch. Snow

fall at midnight. Kissing. Your mother fuming;

 

watching through the dark living room window

as my fingers trace their way home. Working

 

down the front of your jeans. Finding the O

of your cunt. Wriggling in. Your mother’s hate

 

runs deep. She calls me depraved Morozko.

Old Man Frost. “We do more than masturbate,”

 

you told her. Now she’s leery as you drench

your crotch. Eyes closed. Thighs rubbing together.

 

Blushing at my chill touch. At what she don’t

know. Which is how you cum: swaying, teeth clenched,

 

in the dark snowfall, dazed each time winter

sinks, starts to play with what others won’t.

][][

note:

Morozko is the name used in a Russian fairy tale for the Winter King, whose love, they say, brings exquisite death.

consort

27 Tuesday Oct 2020

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Blood caked. Split knuckled after brass knuckles

left a wallop scar, after mama cat’s

 

back claws dug scallop-sized grooves, red jackal’s

love, read across each palm. Your democrat’s

 

lost cause is worth fighting for. Whitman’s, “Great

Commonwealth.” The rage I find in Suffrage.

 

Left hand path’s wrath at all who live to hate

sisters while the boom box sings, “O bondage

 

up yours.” Under split skin bone shines. I’ve sewn

my flesh up before. I can manage pain

 

but not their hate; there are some nerves even

smack can’t dull. My love calls herself a crone,

 

a witch. I’m her consort; son with bloodstain

knuckles. Come. Cum in rage. Rage an omen.

][][

note:

“Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” is the title of a song by X-Ray Spex.

rebound

27 Tuesday Oct 2020

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Call it braille. These scars. This ferociously

opened flesh. You say that you know something

 

about holy texts, at least one, maybe,

that bad translation that you keep calling

 

Word. Yo. You’ve yet to touch this. If you can’t

touch you can’t read and my secrets won’t be

 

handed down to you. The last who could chant

every line aloud is gone. Her dead sea

 

called. She answered. This is one text that knows

it won’t be rebound, recovered. Some verse

 

and code and syllabary are better

lost. “Show me,” you said; but I keep my clothes

 

on. You can’t read me, call these words a curse,

or trace my broken spine with one finger.

upheaval

20 Tuesday Oct 2020

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I too know about singing while the earth

plummets, shifting through its tectonic rage,

 

spewing wisdom. Infernal afterbirth.

I too know about ritual. This age

 

of ours has no libido; I’ve read rites,

retained words, worked charms. I’ve wanted to be

 

more than just your, “brother.” Rolling your tights

to your knees, parting your burqa as we

 

part your lips. In the Song of Songs: “You’re dark,

sister from Lebanon,/ and beautiful.”

 

There are ten-thousand ways to cherish you

and your husband calls them all vile. One spark.

 

One quake. One song. Lust is an upheaval.

Divine chaos. That’s why it’s so taboo.

knurled

19 Monday Oct 2020

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Look up, you purred while Joan growled, so messed up

I want you here; I looked up, a mustache

 

of your knurled cunt curls glued to the scallop-

scarred wreck of my lip. How’d ya get that gash?

 

you asked after our first kiss. To explain

that would require belief in uncanny

 

anatomy, infernal teeth, arcane

lips that bite back. Sex with queer and freaky

 

friends has its own dangers. I shrugged as I

unzipped my jeans. That’s the least of my scars.

 

I’ve seen worse, you said after a stiff pause.

Really? Shotgun pellets shredded my thigh.

 

So messed up. You came. Bass go boom. Guitar’s

howl. My mouth pressed against your toothless jaw.

][][

note:

The song in question is Joan Jett’s cover of The Stooge’s Wanna Be Your Dog (1969).

saints

14 Wednesday Oct 2020

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“¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro, papi!” your kid

sister said as she sank down, swallowing

 

me whole. All that your crank father forbid

we’ve done. “¡Papito!” you sang out, hanging

 

out near Daddy Frank’s. “Wanna babysit?”

With bong hits in the sauna. With frost’s hoar,

 

winter’s ire. With my mouth glued to your clit

as your sister’s toes curled. I’m thirty-four,

 

renting a cabin near Mount Pisgah. Gales

on the island last for days. Your father’s

 

rage paled before the haze of our chronic

cuddles and cum. He fears, “sinful females.”

 

Fear? This is our faith, our church, our scriptures.

¡Ay! this is what the saints would call epic.

][][

notes:

The poem takes places on Beaver Island, located in northern Lake Michigan. Daddy Frank’s is an ice cream shop in St. James (the island’s only town). When the Mormon migrated to Utah way back when a break-away sect, led by a man named Jesse Strang, settled instead on Beaver. Strang declared himself king and island a kingdom separate from America. This did not end well and in 1856 he was assassinated. Very little of the Mormon community remains except for a couple of biblical names found on the map; for example, Mount Pisgah, the highest point on the island, is a 150 foot tall sand dune. In Spanish, “¡Ay! ¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “O! Give it to me hard!” Papito and papi are different ways of saying Daddy.

tsk

08 Thursday Oct 2020

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At last: dawn. Crows in the trees wake. The trees

wake. The virus inside me stirs. Somewhere

 

lovers feel breath on their necks. Smell of sleaze

and gods. Rough taste from the roughest affair

 

is a blessing, too. Somewhere but not here.

Here? The chemistry inside me hates me.

 

My mouth fills with a taste: I’ll call it fear

of hints, of the things to come. Irony:

 

to long for longing. The one truth I know

I can’t have. Only this virus will claim

 

me. All the rest tsk over my health then

move on. Dawn won’t last even as the crow

 

caws her love. I despair then fill with shame

at my regret; the one thing I called sin.

sannine

07 Wednesday Oct 2020

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“Damn. Lost in a forest with Pan.” That’s what

my big splashy mouth on your misfit clit,

 

nihilist cunt, felt like, you grunt: “Glut of smut.”

For hours I devoured; leaving you unfit

 

to drive. Your car slowed on the mountain road

while your son slept in the backseat. “Pregnant

 

and in middle school?” Even your scowl glowed.

“Homeless a month later.” With your silent

 

O and shayla undone you act as if

no one in Lebanon had ever been

 

finger fuck’d before. The divine appear

at odd times; parked on the side of a cliff

 

near Mount Sannine it spoke through you. No sin

or remorse; just faith found in your cum smear.

][][

Notes:

Shayla is a long, rectangular scarf popular with women in the Gulf region. It’s wrapped around the head and pinned in place at the shoulders. Mount Sannine is the highest peak in Lebanon.