puckered

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For so long masturbating and sick drunk
was what I did. I might look like jailbait,

but my stink was just like how the damned stunk:
shame-faced and aroused. Once, when I was eight

and you ten, your mother undressed us, laid
us down belly to belly. “I’m swollen,

babies, drink up mama’s milk.” Her milkmaid
nipples dribbled as she stroked your hymen,

puckered my ass. — What’s a freak and bar fly
when you’re ten? Now I find that what I yearn

for I must drink to smother. Far better
to cum by myself than to be ruled by

chaos because part of me wants to burn
every time that I hear: “come in, mother.”

venus mound

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“Only my ass, daddy, only my ass.”
We sat by the window in your grandma’s

attic attempting to clean all the grass
stains from where you knelt among the thistles

and weeds to take me down your throat. Playground
hookup, you called it. — On the attic floor,

on my back, you ground your round venus mound
against my face. I’d tongue-fuck your flushed core,

if I could. But as I press in you stop —
tell me, not in there. “Don’t make angels weep,”

the nun had warned. We won’t. Dried cum, like glue,
dots your face, while, “be bop a lu she bop,”

plays downstairs. As I bury myself deep
in your ass I think, “I barely know you.”

come down

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Had there been a door, perhaps. The sex-fiend
in me knew. Out in the hall Marvin Gaye’s

“Let’s Get It On,” was playing while you leaned
down and told me to spit. Praise soaked lips. Praise

all the squelchy sounds that you make under
your scrubs. The pulse of your breast in its bra

pressed to my cheek. Perhaps in some other
room there was a door to let the wet, raw

musk of impaled cunt and cock fill the space
between us. “Let your love come down,” Marvin

crooned. Let the drill’s buzz drown out your fox yips
at each stroke. Let my cum dry on your face.

Instead, your nipple hard against my skin,
you smiled, slid a finger between my lips.

prurient

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Fleshlight. Teledildonics. HiTechPorn.
Pity unloved sex toys. Lost anal beads

in the sock drawer. A vibrator forlorn
and cracked. We all have lascivious needs.

We all have prurient interests. But butt
plugs and cock rings sauced with crusted up lube;

broke-ass nipple clamps; someone’s well-loved smut
discarded — they’re all my pathos. FuckCube

busted. Sybian broke. I know the dismay
of a Ben Wa ball torn from its playmate.

I’m still sentimental for your clit rings,
for all childish things that you put away.

Suffering Sappho, save me from straight hate
that schemes against us, your divine blessings.

translating lorca

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“VERDE, QUE TE QUIERO, VERDE.”
“Skebgezo, gmenwénmen, skebgezo.”
“Green, I want you, green.”

Potawatomi is an oral language meaning that it has only been until (relatively) recently that a dictionary using English has been made available to people like me who just want to learn the language because it sounds beautiful. To complicate things there are both Southern and Northern dialects that have their own vocabulary. I live in the north but my on-line language classes are from a southern band (Citizen Nation) who, logically, use southern terms. Today I am struggling over how to say green in Potawatomi in the context of the first line of Federico Garcia Lorca’s poem, Romance Sonambulo. “Verde, que te quiero, verde.” In Potawatomi the world is broken up into things that are animate (all that which is living, all which is spiritual, etc.) and inanimate (man-made things, etc.) The green that Lorca addresses (verde) embodies both hopeful and thwarted desire. I’ve always seen it as something otherworldly and alive. Animate green. One Potawatomi word-list I found on-line from Wisconsin says that green is, “eshkebok.” I liked that, since I could rhyme it with sleepwalk which plays nicely with the title of Lorca’s poem (Ballad of the Sleepwalker). However a different word list (this one from Oklahoma) says that green is, “skebgezo.” Perhaps it’s that regional difference I don’t really understand yet? Perhaps one is animate and the other not? I don’t know. The frustration of learning by oneself is that there is no one to correct my errors as I go along. Que te quiero (how I want you) is easier since I could find the actual phrase in Potawatomi in several sources. It is: “gmenwénmen.” I’m not at a place in my studies where I can keep translating the poem but one day I will. One day I will translate all of Lorca’s work and a brand new world will open up, just like that. I am endlessly excited to see a new world.

enough

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.