Tag Archives: Poetry

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.

except need

16 Friday Jun 2017

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A beat oozes from somewhere deep below
me. It’s the rattle of the fan. The squeaks

that the floor makes. The day’s heat, all day-glo,
neon green, waves filtering up in streaks,

halos. I feel it when I press my cheek
against the warped wood; a beat totally

alien to my own heart. A wild shriek
of drums when drums shriek. What debauchery

isn’t kinship to such noise? That riot
of want that has no language except need.

I hear it, barely. All that you call smut
I call prayer. All that is green and honeyed.

All prayer is need. I bend down to the floor.
I need more than this queer beat. I need more.

stand

14 Wednesday Jun 2017

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Give me the narcotics; all this morning
these gin tonics don’t do much. Someone, please,

said the fly to the spider with its sting
and long leer. When did I become a tease

to all that tried to help me? Why am I
the one who can’t take friendships easily?

Outside the mud swallow and magpie
fly by my window. There’s something haughty

about my last stand. This is all in flux,
everything smears, everything is a mess

across my face and yet somehow I must
keep calm. It’s a stand; yet roses, lilacs

and the ash can’t help me with my distress.
I don’t want intoxication … just trust.

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.

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.

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.