scent

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

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I love the cats who mark you as their own.
My John Monroe, with no lower lip, drools

down my cheek as I hold him. Pigeon’s moan
is a dove’s coo. Nubbins hisses and mewls

in joy, his one eye, tattered ears, pressing
against my arm each time I stoke his bent

neck. Show me a love that’s not a blessing;
a love not supreme — I carry that scent

everywhere. On the days when this human
world is mean and when my friends turn away

and those that I call family despair
and when I am left depressed and maudlin

and I don’t have the strength to even pray —
there’s love. I carry that scent everywhere.

][][
note:
I volunteer at a no-kill cat shelter, Crash’s Landing, where most of my cat photos come from. The cats I mention are all waiting for someone who’ll want to give them their forever-homes.

spill

12 Monday Jun 2017

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Slowly summer ebbed away. There was bright
heat, sometimes green. You tutored me each day.

I was slow and you were frenzied. You would bite
my neck, scratch my back; while, “mientras te

estoy montando,” in your dad’s bathroom.
In two months you’d go to college; until

then I bent you double, pierced you to your womb,
ruined your throat until we would both spill

all that was inside. I will always be
this: dull and dim. I couldn’t follow you,

despite the español that you taught me.
I can’t find you since I’m without virtue

and you’re as real as an acid flashback.
Memory of what I want, hold me back.

][][

note:

In Spanish, “mientras te estoy montando,” translates as, “while I’m riding you.”

trails

11 Sunday Jun 2017

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Morning heat is drying out the ragged
bits of snail trails on my front stoop. The gin

at last kicks in. I was throwing up blood
last night, leaving me cold and dank, my skin

waxy. I love how silver fades away
in heat. I sit on my stoop, run a thumb

over the trail. Lick it clean. An old stray
curls at my feet; her purring a rhythm,

one that I follow. My neighbor calls out,
heading for work. This is how everything

should end. I’m lost in the Skatalites, Toots
and the Maytals, Madness. We all burnout.

We all fade. Snail trails. A stray cat purring.
Some of us are stars; some only tributes.

vegas

10 Saturday Jun 2017

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The heat rises. It’s nothing like spring storms.
Nothing stirs. Whose fur hangs dank? Who drowses

and sleeps half the day away? Heat deforms,
corrupts us. The sweat in my pubes itches.

I scratch and scratch until tufts come away:
soggy cum, soggy spit and tight black curls.

You sprawl nearby me. The way your thighs splay
makes me blush though our naked boy’s and girl’s

secrets mean little in this heat. We pass
a spliff back and forth. We drain our whiskey

and pour out more. Cicadas drone. The glass
in your hand sweats. Everything is raspy.

Tonight we’ll go out in the summer storm
with heat-lightning, the air bathwater warm.

uncouth

09 Friday Jun 2017

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I say, “She who starts with an abattoir’s

knife ends with allure.” That’s cheap. Perhaps. Love

curls in me, though: muscles, sweat, cum, bargain-

floor booze. You trace all my bruises and scars.

I’m off my tits on mandrake root, foxglove

and wormwood. Perhaps love is an omen.

Perhaps love begins as a Stone Butch; ends

in glory — We start all this with someone

who can break us by accident. My friend

who walks on goaty-girl legs and cloven

hooves, who says that she’s an uncouth butcher —

Hacker of meat — Curved fire — Gloriosa

blooms — Riotgrrl — Afropunk — “El olor

de mi coño” — Vulva Furiosa.

}{}{

note:

“El olor de mi coño” translates into “the odor of my cunt”

naturally

09 Friday Jun 2017

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We want to know that the kink is still

there. Now? No, soon. I drink so that I don’t

think so much. Hashish, Vodka and Advil

deletes memories. Who says that I won’t

tell how I failed at the Slam; this stutter,

that lisp, no one wanted to hear such noise.

There was no beat, just radio anger

in my head. Those raw static wires destroy

rhymes which neither strut nor slide. Praise the holes

in my skull — What was kink but our hoodwink

over failure? — Nothing comes naturally

to me — Not even joy over our soul’s

loss, our grief’s flesh. Now? I don’t want to think

except for Absinthe, Gin and Peyote.

milking

26 Friday May 2017

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You with the double-hung belly. You made

a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.

We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid

far too often. For a week we were high

as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang

and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk

the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —

while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk

after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp

remained perverse; my head buried between

your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,

tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling

out to the gods prayers devout and obscene

as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.