trying to explain the internet to my dead aunt

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The ghosts of my hard aunts all called themselves
butch and worked the graveyard shift making jeeps.
I am a fey thing, in love with bookshelves
more than pool and Patsy Cline, one who keeps
family close in this wild new age. Type
in “aunt,” “jeep,” “butch,” and, “Squirting on my truck’s
gearshift,” appears. Aunties, my waiting past,
where does Stonewall fall when these finger fucks
cock sucker blues can be found anywhere?
The dead give little reply. I’ve built worlds
on their broad shoulders. Love is a small price.
Just know your daughters and sons are a prayer
unasked for but here all the same. Your girls
and boys love you, I hope that will suffice.

yes, sin

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Slowly, summer waking, you rise, lovesick
beastie, cacophonous, the way all fucks
before dawn make noise. We’re not awake, slick
in dream, wet under the sheets. Your stomach’s
end, the last stopping point of pubic bone
before the drop off and the hard column
rising before me. Wheeling in a blown
sky we are only voices. Come, we cum,
sea fire berries so ripe we cast shadows
on the waves like a Berber tale. Slowly,
with North Africa’s heat, rise. Are you sin?
Yes, sin. You pull away, crying like crows
denied their due. I’ll sail to Barbary,
aboard a tramp steamer, The Jianzhen.

what sleeps inside

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“Know thyself and all will be revealed.”
― Pamela Theresa Loertscher

Find what they would do but cannot. Find what
sleeps there, the other nature, disjointed
but still distinct. Words that we use — hag, slut,
bitch, dyke — all have their sacred counterpoints.
The witch, the lover, the queen, Brynhildr’s
shield maid who’ll stand by her side at World’s End.
There are other dreams, of course, ones that stir
sleeping souls. Rose and amber. The girlfriend
who dreamed of a necklace — white, frothy, thick
— hiding each breast — then along came a tongue
and left them slick. The soft ball coach who aches
for war like a field marshal. Be you sapphic
or straight, pink or brown, rich, poor, old or young,
tell us whats inside, what rises, what wakes.

notes:

Brynhildr : Old Norse legend name from the Nibelungenlied, queen of the Valkyries. Her name is composed of brynja, meaning “armor, coat of mail,” and hildr meaning, “battle,” from which we get: armored warrior woman.

peaches and herb

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Chocolate and booze, sighs the diabetic
alcoholic, while Reunited plays
in the background. There’s nothing poetic
about this shit. Poets make lousy lays.
Despise their words they don’t last long in bed.
Promise me you’re not like that, letting your
ego dictate your libido. The dead
give much better head than any cocksure
pre-teen. Tween. Teasing. Of course, cock sucking
is your forte. It’s why you write about skanks
instead of being one. Just look at me,
diabetic, alcoholic, bragging
like I bought my own lie. The booze I drank.
The fucks I gave. All the shit I sell you.

suffer fools

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You said, “steal only from the dead, rarely
do they file plagiarism charges.” But
we the dead do not suffer fools lightly
in all your hundredweight and penny pound.
You don’t even know what a banyan tree
looks like, so how can you sit under it?
Mecca means nothing but Robot TV.
Instead you rip off the Jews, yet omit
the small detail that those words are not yours.
So, you say, what does that matter? We built
our world on the shoulders of the Other.
Plus, they are our words now, it’s what our wars
prove. Yet you still don’t know the word for guilt?
Odd, that theft to you could ever matter.

note:

The line “hundredweight and penny pound” was stolen from Johnny Cash’s song “When The Man Comes Around,” and it doesn’t even rhyme with“but” … But …!

low-tide

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Take me to the unexplored dark once more.
I know all about this pressure. Without
you with me I’ll never get to drift pure
in these deep waters again. Ignore doubt
and the shaking needle of the meter.
I do remember you holding your hands
out to the far surface, your face under
pressure was beautiful. Then failed commands,
screaming, rupture. Once love you kissed my skin,
breathed me in until I filled you. You should
have lived on love instead of air. Hell bound
you could only see yourself escape in
rising sea foam, while the rest of us stood
at our posts, watching you flee as we drowned.

ugliest words

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It’s a weird world. She tells me of a date
and how later they both fornicated.
Yeah, that’s the word that she used, “fornicate,”
one of the ugliest words to describe naked
lust, sex magic, lucid pleasure. But she’s
foreign, recently dead and her English
broken. What do I know? I lost the ease
of my tongue when I passed, too. Her anguish
and fear with sex, especially anal,
remains, bit daft, since she’s lost her booty.
She’s more mist, more soul made froth. You living
call lust sin; but if you’re not a lustful
soul death tends to be … shocking. Poor banshee,
love won’t hurt you. That’s what death is: loving.

because it is love

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What can bind us to another? Crimson’s
smear on the tongue. A stain no spell can break.
Blood is blood is blood. I’ve drunk from demons
like you before, felt that wild fiery ache
run all riot through me. I’ve begged, I’ve screamed,
I’ve been bled in turn, but not like that. Knives
reveal secrets, tell our fears. I blasphemed
when I took you inside me. Love survives
because it is love. Here are my secrets,
here are my fears. I’ll drink all that once ran
in your heart, all that you no longer need.
Call it greed or bondage, all that riots,
all that aches. It is where I first began,
where I’ll return. I’m hungry. I must feed.