Tag Archives: poem

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.

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.

ills

19 Friday May 2017

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Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat

of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)

untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat

murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain

from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm

only to scab over. My body plays

host to a host of ills that plague and swarm

throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze

that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;

I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.

Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host

to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,

your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;

nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.

rapt

19 Friday May 2017

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Perhaps while straddled. Perhaps in the gloom

of your nightgown; all that whiteness against

your breast. Perhaps in the small folds, the bloom

of heat where my skin pressed. Perhaps I tensed

when I should have relaxed. Perhaps we lapped

something queer from a gourd or a clay pot

that left us, in turns, both baffled and rapt.

Perhaps when it was time what you thought

you could do you couldn’t and simply choked.

Perhaps none of these. Whatever has brought

me here, love, doesn’t matter. Why regret?

Why so sad? Your cigarette has been smoked.

My wine drunk. Let’s share all that we’ve been taught.

Your pen. My ink. Our secret alphabet.