enough

14 Sunday Apr 2019

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Soft or hard, purple or brown, my mouth takes
it deep your tongue tongues it, crests it. Our lips

purse as we start to suck, as her cunt quakes
and salt droplets her skin. With acid trips,

frigatrix fingers and chronic, we shared
a bed and your sister’s ruined body —

cancer had left her rickety and scared.
Deep love requires desire. The three

of us odd things. You say orgasms must
be the cure. I say with enough pleasure

we will hold on. But love, debanawen,
even death, nbowen, is neither just

nor fair. It just is. Like how we kiss her.
We pass the bong. We do it again.

NOTE:
Today marks Week 2 in my studies of the Potawatomi language. I want to learn it because it is beautiful to my ear. My goal is to one day translate English and Spanish poetry into Potawatomi, to help expand its edges, to make this world a little more interesting to be in. That said I am going to be working on this project for a long time to come. I’m constantly getting my verb tenses mixed up, which is why this poem is using only simple nouns. Love, in Potawatomi, is, “Debanawen,” while Death is, “Nbowen.” I hope soon to be able to form more complex sentences in my sonnets but today I’m being kind to myself. I’m a slow learner.

ndekwem

04 Thursday Apr 2019

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Dreams are coming fast these days. It started

with two — “wasabzo o seksi” — deer eyes

 

shining in the dark. Antlers caked with blood.

In the dark, underneath, curved hips and thighs

 

announce something else. I can’t even say,

“Ndekwem,” my Sister, but I need to.

 

You—whose daughters are lost, who men betray,

who I don’t understand—I’ll wait for you

 

by the tree that bears your name. Dreams of two

eyes, moon-mad bright, means that you’re drawing near—

 

In the dark, underneath all the abuse

and fear, I wish that I could talk. To do

 

something useful. Deer that is not a deer

at long last let me be of some damn use.

 

NOTE:

Violence against Indigenous women is at an epidemic level. According to armingsisters, “It is estimated that 1 in 3 Indigenous women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. However, a study done by Amnesty International found that 90% of all Indigenous women have experienced sexual assault.”

Organizations such as Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women USA have made it their mission to find the staggering numbers who go missing across the United States and Canada each year. I say this because I want you to understand why I am (slowly) learning Neshnabé (Potawatomi language). I live near two sovereign Potawatomi tribes in West Michigan, Match-e-be-nash-she-wish Band (near Gun Lake) and ‎Pokagon Band (near Dowagiac). To understand a problem you first have to be able to understand the language that it is spoken in and I do not think English will be the tool to help fight against domestic violence.

The words that I use in the poem are Potawatomi.  “Ndekwem,” means, “my sister,” and, “wasabzo o seksi,” talks about deer eyes (seksi) shining in the dark. I might be a slow student but I am confident that once I understand then I too can, “be of some damn use.”

bouldered

28 Thursday Mar 2019

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Heavy pull of tide makes your nipples hard;
suck of abyss on your lips like grindstones.

Others have been worn down by flood, reward
for all perverse natures—we know that bones

cannot last. Already this bouldered beach
has been scoured, cliffs swallowed. In a year

all this will be gone. Let tide-water teach
you all that you need to know. Do not fear

drowning, just love perversion. When you flip
your skirt up on hands and knees, when each wave

pounds your cervix, when your mouth gapes in faint
cool groans and your drool seeps onto salt-tip

stones. Then, perhaps, you’ll learn to misbehave,
as the waves do, without shame or restraint.

wet with spots

21 Thursday Mar 2019

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On the playground kids sang, “girls with glasses
love it in their asses,” while sugar cubes

melted on our tongues. We’d skipped our classes
to hide under the jungle-gym. Your pubes

poked out from either side of your panties
wet with spots blossoming in the cotton.

When the acid hit us our high school sleaze
cranked to eleven. Some say that children

should be obscene and not heard. “¡Dámelo
por culo!” Your glasses slipped to your nose

as I buried myself balls-deep. My, O!
your, ¡Ai! Back before we learned of sorrow

and our beastly bent acid-fueled shadows
fused. Back when your afro glowed all halo.

name

15 Friday Mar 2019

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So much ego wrapped up in minimal
space, those vain names. I’m strapped in strapless flame,

split to the hip, one of those criminal
little black dresses whose name you can’t name

but crave all the same. “Unsung,/ well-hung: come
hither, as/ in, slither and cum.” I know

why you feed on praise, need praise, any crumb
tossed your way. Your plain name, your low-down woe

at not being a god, the way you dress
your pride. One day, when you crave more than bliss,

come slink with me. We’ll prowl wearing glamour-
cut cloth. Instead of arrogance we’ll bless

our souls. Nameless. Simple. If you knew this
you would. But you don’t. Not now. Not ever.

NOTE:
According to Buddhism the Second of the Four Noble Truths is that suffering is caused by selfish craving and personal desire.

cum mum

13 Wednesday Mar 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Legs in the air after chemo. Truck seat
as pink as the cracks in your missing breast.

Back then our Lover’s Lane was the short street
near school. Adults were callous and depressed,

except you, except: “not there, pet, my ass …
put it there.” In the distance the school bell

rang as you came, as I flunked out of class —
as your muscle phat squeezed my cock farewell.

“Call me yummy mummy. Call me your cum
mum.” That was snark but I didn’t know snark

then — just plain child’s play and being wanted.
Plain as Big-O, Big-C, finding freedom

in who you fuck far too late. Plain as dark
in hurt flesh, brittle bones, corrupted blood.

cherubino

05 Tuesday Mar 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Latin, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Back then you loved Not-Mom-and-Son porn clips.
You hand-rolled your joints and read Catullus

to me after middle school. Your wide hips
and ass held Latin names, even, “flatus

vaginalis,” — what the Roman poet
called cunt-vapors, caused by, “coitus more

ferarum,” fucking like wild beasts, sounded
posh. Your missing breast, cancer scars, dismay

in your eyes each time you came meant nothing
to me. You were my awesome. Ghost, hellbent,

do you dream of your cherubino or
do the dead forget? Even now, reading

Latin recalls that time before lament
and lechery; before howl and hardcore.

NOTE:
The erotic world feeds our souls and I loooove learning new erotic ideas and words in other languages. The danger is, though, a poem full of foreign words, 9 times out of 10, falls apart because the very same words I get so excited about mean nothing to most readers, so they get skipped over. If you asked me what makes a poem successful, “not skipping over parts of it,” would be high on the list. For the record, “flatus vaginalis,” is the Latin term for a pussy fart; “coitus more ferarum,” means fucking [in the manner of] beasts and, “Cherubino,” is a pet-name for a young boy infatuated with an older woman.

coup d’etat

03 Sunday Mar 2019

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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That’s the knife called: She Slits Open.
Once I sang that I’d slice open my gut,

reach in and drag out loops of intestine
if it ever got that bad. Before smut

and my sonnets I lived in Las Vegas,
crossroad of ghosts. I carried her with me

all the time: at the Shrine of the Goddess,
in class, at the gym. I was one sissy

hellbent on going out like Mishima.
Honor is queer, though: once it got that bad

only survival could prove them all wrong —
prove my fey soul is strong — Cosmic Vulva

strong — strong as the ghosts calling me comrade.
Stronger than this old belly-slitting song.

NOTE:
Yukio Mishima was a Japanese author and literary luminary, obsessed with beauty, homoeroticism and death. On November 25, 1970, Mishima and four members of his secret militia entered a military base in central Tokyo, took the commandant hostage and tried to persuade the soldiers there to join in overthrowing the new pacifist government in a coup d’etat. When this was unsuccessful, Mishima committed seppuku, ritual suicide by cutting open his belly.

She Slits Open

infernal fountain

01 Friday Mar 2019

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The street kids all laughed at the noise we made,
hurried over at the first lop-bam-boom,

first toe-curling wail. Infidel who prayed
to false female gods, your mom declared. Womb

talk by a man? Tsk, she spat. She’s correct,
but it’s more than just talk. Window open,

slick with kisses, afternoon sweat, respect
for bald lust, for the infernal fountain

of your cunt. Call my promised land Lilith
and your clit. Your mom freaks at, “¡me haces

mojada!” At your skirt pulled up, midriff
exposed. At what I call prayer that gushes

sublime between her adored First Daughter
and the infidel who knows no better.

NOTE:
“Me haces mojada,” translates from Spanish as, “you make me wet.”

hoarfrost

25 Monday Feb 2019

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After school the god Frost loves us naked —
loves how we kiss, our blood filled with fire-juice

flames. With our snowsuits peeled down, your rosebud
peeled wide, with your lewd laugh, the one you use

when you’re on the edge, with the fogged-up glass,
Mad Bad Winter watching, with your groan, “nein,

nicht mein arse,” but it’s often in your ass,
often in your mom’s shed filled with old pine

smoke as you stare without blinking. Gods lost
still love us, love our fire-juice, love the shock

of flame. Frost loves us even though my cum
doesn’t splatter plumbed, feathered, like hoarfrost

on glass. — That’s why it stares as we walk,
hand in hand, through dingy sleet and dusky slum.