boreas’ curse

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The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst

time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse

lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,

because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.

Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.

Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle

deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”

faith and deceit

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Records of the soul: that is erotic —
between rapture we all keep fucking up

(all these bodily fluids) Be vulvic/
phallic/ the space between: cork-screw, scallop,

fingers in the deep dark. When the dead cheat
on you do you cheat back? The dead don’t care

and so you write about faith and deceit
which is piety, but nothing like prayer.

Faith means that you’ll put up with anything
just to be heard. Prayer touches, that’s what matters.

You are beloved and you are everything.
You’re god-talk. Erotica. The answers.

For them: procreation is the sinkhole.
For the rest of us: rapture is our soul.

tía

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Defiled, bent over, your pucker glistened
as I pushed in deeper; little maelstroms

ran all through your thighs. That night your husband
was out of town, your son was at your mom’s;

I slept over only once. “Sé cuánto
quieres follarme el culo,”
you joked

on the phone. All week you’d used a dildo
to stretch yourself out, and now, panting, soaked,

you groaned, “¡Dámelo duro!” so I did.
None of this lasted. The pillows loathed us.

The birds woke us. I went home. That was it.
Your taste, laugh, the inked Aztec pyramid

above your ass: all gone. I was anxious,
so young, you were my «Tía» so brilliant.

][][
Notes:
I use several phrases in Spanish in this poem. “Tía,” is the simple word for aunt. The best that I can do with, “Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo,” is, “I know how much you want to fuck my ass.” Finally, “¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “Harder!” or, “Give it to me hard!” All matters of the heart are bittersweet.

afterglow (galata)

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Say what is true: the sky darkened. Your name
was Yu Na, hand on your neck, pressed against

your back, hard deep fast enough, hips became
bruised; your parents slept in the next room. Tensed,

you bit my arm as you quaked. Tomorrow
you’ll be gone with your parents on the next

leg of your holiday. In the afterglow
I could not read your face: content? perplexed?

mesmerized by the rain against the pane?
Once you’re gone I shall walk through Istanbul

in the Old Quarter. Do you still recall
all that we did: kisses, pleasure, cocaine?

Now what is true: sky storm, I was sick-ghoul
thin and you tasted of grief and menthol.

][][

Notes:
So let’s say that you take a big red autobus from Yerevan to Istanbul (back in 1997) then you’ll pass through the mountains of Georgia and all along the Turkish coast of the Black Sea (which looks surprisingly like the coast of Baja Mexico, except all the towns have minarets in them). The bus, filled with Armenian merchants with their wares to sell in the markets, ends up at a curved street near the Spice Bizarre and the Blue Mosque in the Old Quarter of the city. The hotel that everyone uses, The Golden Horn, has people from all around the world. Next to my room was a family from Seoul. Across the street was a restaurant that specialized in pilaf and curry. I spent two weeks in Istanbul during my winter holiday while in Peace Corps. I crossed over the Galata Bridge that spans from Europe to Asia every day. Hrant Dink was still alive. I wasn’t healthy and when I finally returned to the city of Gyumri, Peace Corps administration had me “psycho’vac’d” to Washington DC. I would arrive in back in America, damaged, on March 10, my 27th birthday.

santorum

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I like the wet, the sweaty, the ones dank
and moist after a workout. You come home

from the gym; it’s 9 and I’m drunk. I yank
your shorts down; spread you wide. With tongue I roam

around your core. “No, it’s dirty,” you bleat —
pressed against the wall, fingers scratching paint.

I’m not a scholar; you’re not an athlete;
but we make do. “Auntie Peg” — holy saint

of the fifth base, fecking and gaped starfish —
“Let me clean the kitchen.” Neither of us

are strong but I fill you with a fat slish
until all else becomes superfluous.

You are ill and I’m a freakin’ drunk —
you and I are bareback: post-rage, post-punk.

][][
note:
If you’re trying to write gender-neutral erotica anal sex makes a logical path, especially in a world that does not reward gender-neutral, but we make do. Auntie Peg is both a reference to Juliet Anderson, who passed away in 2010 and also to the act of using a strap-on on a male partner.

potheadette

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Words that rhyme with grunt: we’ve been friends so long,
forthright, strong: rumble of vowel. I’ve throat-

fucked you so much that we’ve made your diphthong
skip groove. That noise that you make, that keynote.

It’s odd when the only thing in-between
me and our stranger is a ribbed condom.

Because we lured, with hash cakes, with obscene
talk, your new neighbor over. A threesome

when you should’ve been at school. By the third
bite you bit her neck, her clit, called her aunt.

You might call yourself a potheadette nerd
in a niqab, we both know what you want.

That sound that you make; unfettered, sloppy
with joy; my best friend, soaking wet, gushy.

-m-e-s-s-m-e-u-p-

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Sunk in you, three knuckles deep. Palms pounded
on the car’s roof. Each hoarse, “Fuah! Aah!” Telltale

stains on the seat, your jeans, a pad with blood.
That night my mixtape and the winter’s gale

drowned out your croaky cries. You arched your spine,
sprayed down my wrist and arm. We had nowhere

to go so we drove downtown as the whine
of the blizzard led us to a daycare

parking lot, now abandoned. Friday night.
Our third date. “Mess me up inside,” you said.

You had to be home soon. I kissed the scar
on your inner thigh, rubbed you with delight,

then stuck my fingers, all cum-soaked and red,
in your mouth. The taste of going too far.

apocryphal thing

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Fruit flies drift around my glass-pipe. Cheeba
spirits — perhaps? A friend sends me ink flow

pix, thick thighs, spandex and short-shorts, extra
around the belly. I love my friend, though

we’re a world apart. Ghosts are everywhere,
like love. Dr. Teeth told us to, “Begin,

Believe, Begat.” But to start an affair
is an apocryphal thing with a friend.

Everything will change. I brush away specks.
On the laptop, Ganjasaurus Rex, plays.

I feel that heavy cold spot when I’m not
doing right but that need for friends, love, sex

leaves me low. To be appeased with just praise;
to have someone who might quell my distraught.

year of the conch shell

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The Year of the Cock makes gender-neutral
a tad hard, be it soft flesh or strap-on —

but we strive. If, during our long anal
fucking, I cup your balls, pull your tampon

string, or rub that scarred place that you can’t feel,
then we’re still creatures of fire in a world

that loathes burning. If, after each gasp, squeal
and, “¡Ai! mi Diosa!” If, while we’re curled,

nuzzled, while the sweat and cum cools, then yes,
this year might remain awful — we can lose

so much — yet, we’re here right now, divinely.
There’s no Year of the Conch Shell, though we bless

the same deep crinkled lips. These are taboos
that we must break—these acts that make us free.

unzips

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Sit. Dig your nails in. Feel scars that bisect,
split my ribs just so; a welted, mangled

path that leads to my forever-erect
teats, tits (whatever) since both have barbelled

steel hooped in them. Spit on your fingertips.
Find the grit-like pit of my wound. The heart-

bit that you might dig up. Find what unzips
scars. Some of us jones. Some of us bogart.

Some are the last hits. I am the last prayer.
Squeeze and knit this pressure point; the clit-end

of my last nerve end, My kit. My creature,
twilit; be slit, chit. I’m clamped, all oyster —

my thighs are clamped-up shut and you’re the friend
who is neither the damned nor a savior.