Tag Archives: poem

itchy ghost

21 Saturday Apr 2018

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Praise to the needle and praise to the thread;
how they suture a pucker together.

Picture a moonface, my face, my forehead
slit in two. Beastly flap flopping, glimmer

of bone mixed with blood. A doctor at work:
that jab thrust pull, jab thrust pull on my lip

diced, seams leaving me with a grotesque smirk,
jackal grin. My chin sliced. My finger tip.

My odd hip. Itchy ghost of zipper scars
and flick knives. Small lewd ghost of aortal

blood and wire. You both know the infamy
that is sewn under these clothes; mark of Mars,

mar of bloodshed, held in place with needle
and thread. Y’all put the “scar” into scary.

zed

16 Saturday Dec 2017

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Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.

All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury

when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.

Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh

around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury

myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human

that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.

night seed

15 Friday Dec 2017

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Empire. Incubus. Lust. The sky came through
and the window stood open. You were not

here, no. You were there; like how the crow flew.
Like the crow caught. Like how the sky was caught

at the foot of my bed. It squawked, rustled,
beat wings as I wrapped my arms around air.

Sky loves us all; but who loves its muscled
grace? When was the last time that you were bare

naked before it? Can you name its scars?
Can you name its need? Sky, love, pony-bird.

You’re still a lost empire. You’re still night seed.
My bed is wide. I swear by the jaguar’s

toothed song that I know why you have hungered.
Love, I know how to satisfy your need.

hothouse

13 Wednesday Dec 2017

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Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped

in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped

tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.

You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak

your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.

Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-

in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.

theur elwis cum

01 Friday Dec 2017

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You sit, dripping on the gunwale, nostrils
flaring, your hemmed dress covering your knee

while I cut guff-rope from off your ankles.
“Ah’m chilled,” you chatter, “teur t’ bone, duppy.

Gi’ uz yaw rawny ‘eat.” What dead returns
when called? The boat bobbed on gray-green Haitian

waves. They had tried to snuff you; but salt burns
with ropes, entwined; fat moon with sickly sun,

enlaced; living with dead, conjoined. This, too,
is faith. I hug you. You cough up a lung,

laugh, stare: “duppy, ah knuw you’d cum.” You wince,
shifting back organs: “theur elwis cum.” True,

I do, for you. Your lips are cracked, your tongue
black, so I row us back to Port-au-Prince.

][][
Notes:
For the record I am not using any sort of Haitian accent in the poem, it is actually Yorkshire. A duppy is, traditionally, a malevolent spirit from the Caribbean (see: Bob Marley’s Duppy Conqueror, for popular use), though as with everything that people insist on making black and white I delight in the grays.

phantasmic slit

07 Tuesday Nov 2017

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Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer

cesarean incision that will bear

me no child and will never heal. All fear

rests right here (between hip and hip) right there

(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra

do I need to drive a knife through to keep

myself from feeling this way? Since vodka

only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep

without dreaming let me run fingernails

across my phantasmic slit; that which you

can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut

this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s

trail that not even the gods can undo.

A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.

potheadette

12 Tuesday Sep 2017

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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.

ARS POETICA

30 Sunday Jul 2017

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Others see silvered far-flung loneliness.
Shadowed boom of surf. The waste of breakers

pulling back. The voices that they hear: chaos,
malice, an alien ear. These others

took in the mirror to find the divine.
I look in the long sweep of waves. Rolling

lash of dark water against the hull. Brine
on my lips. Endless gray wet. There’s nothing

for the landsmen obsessed with sin and shame
down here; the men who say that they have known

that their divine is here to mollify
them with what is unknowable. No name.

No shape that you’ll recognize as your own
except in shadows as great fish swim by.

marimacho

19 Wednesday Jul 2017

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It was a dry spring when the fireflies
faded in a week, the cicadas raged,

the burned grass sagged. Each fuck was a disguise
that we used to keep the earth new; outrage

those new gods who shrilled at acts that we did.
Back when curses called sin hadn’t had time

to drip down your thigh as two fingers slid
in and you named a love of vast sublime

stirring within you. The Mother Who Churns.
Because freedom comes not from cock-masters

or clit-cutters but from rebels who fuck
with their estrogen and grafted sideburns.

I love my sisters who look like junked bros.
Let’s love truth that is reveled in havoc.

gash and harvest

04 Tuesday Jul 2017

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At first thrust you gasped; cello’s tight sinew
snapping as you opened up, your haunches

splayed, your fingers in the grass, then you drew
your head back, whiplash, and begged with curses,

“¡fóllame el culo!” You made an awed
pucker at either end, a mewl and grunt

into a whine, as the curved bow seesawed
inside you. I named gods (manic, urgent)

who lived for this. What else was there? Later
we curled, sucked from the hookah. Opium

imbued the air. We could’ve been a prayer
to an old life, old death. Cum and conjure.

Gash and harvest. Suture and orgasm.
Instead we’re what the gods left out: horror.

][][
note:
In Spanish, “Fóllame el culo,” translates into, “Fuck my ass.” Of all the instruments that I will never learn how to play the cello is what I set my words to.