So You Wander

He tells you that everyone is in search for God

In search of peace

                                                                                                              salvation

The man with the prostitute

The prostitute, an artist when it comes to falling in love

Love a holy too earthly
An earthly too heavenly

Its always a step ahead

You can see her strutting the room

He sees you flinch
he tells you of glasses full

You think of her
                                                    lips you can’t get out of mind

Imagine her spilling over in your glass

There are thresholds for a reason he says

You still see her
Untouched
Untouchable
So she thinks
So you think

So you are.

He says he used to be able to read people a mile away

You are closer than a mile

you ask him what he sees in you

He tells you he stopped reading
it never got him holy with people

People aren’t for reading he says

                                                                 It’s cheating

                              Whats the point of knowing before you know?

                                       So you try and put down your glasses

Reading doesn’t get you anywhere

Knowledge for the sake of knowledge

For the sake of safety

That

Is not where you want to be going

You walk outside to the man playing with fire

Give the fire some spin

Dangerous is the most calm you ever feel

                            Calm feels laced

Arsenic in the glasses

Filled with water wanting to spill

Fire
you know it will get you
When it gets you

You can see it

I used to stay away from storms he said

You never believed in that

                                                                                                 You always thought you’d find the holy after being struck by lightening

You’ve stood in a lot of open in fields

                                       It’s the walls that make you feel unsafe

                                                                                                                     Walls can come down

He sees you flinch again

Walls or fields

      Just put the glasses down

It ain’t gonna get you holy.

Truth

Never call a woman gorgeous when inside her

unless you are prepared for her to take that personally.

Group Piece: Alberto, Bring Me a Sandwich with Cucumbers

Me:

I want cute kisses

cute kisses when I get excited about cucumbers

and you think im silly

but I cant stop making you smile

cuz that’s fucking cuter than trite shit like rain

and street lamps

or Paris

fuck Paris!

 

Alberto:

Fuck Paris

Or better yet,

fuck in Paris.

Coming Clean

In the wake of pleasure

Two things come to be true:

ONE.
I will strip my bed of fitted comfort
until I detox the
Silhouette of midnight lovers.

TWO.
the minutes, hours, days of detox
I will resort to varying forms of nihilism.

Rituals are hard to part with.

When the black and blue tracks marks of teeth and finger tips are gone
It’s time to play again
To choose more wisely
A Bedfellow
That can climb me Rapunzel
Leaving graffiti on my walls
Between heart and head

To let him stay.

Who can move my hands to keep his silhouette stitched upon me
To leave the sheets on
Because we’ll just dirty them again tomorrow
and the day after that
and the day after that.

Lack of upper body strength
Has kept my walls impenetrable
Even when they want to tumble.

Happy endings are not sought after.
It’s reasons to trust the words “gorgeous”
Again.
To trust the way my name has curled around lovers’ lips.
It’s reasons to write more poetry.

A fool will fall in love after consummation
A poet falls in love with the story she created of the way you’d break her heart.

Ask her how she pictures you doing her in.

The gorier
The more you meant.

The simpler
The little you could possibly inflict.

Do not mistake the story for what you really are.
She will make use of her own imagination.
Scribbling over anything you could have said or done.

Do not be honest with poets
For they might reflect an abstracted truth.

Some serious shit.

On February 1^st, 2012
On Asbury
Between Evans and High St.

Jan,
The hot dog man
Handed me my turkey dog
With the works
And told me
“Don’t fall in love today.”

It was probably a joke about the grilled onions
But I took that shit so seriously
I went home
And boarded up all the walls
With caution tape.

It’s been almost a year of following his advice so closely.

That when you looked me in the eyes
And told me I was stunning
I threw out my thighs to distract you
From asking about all the tape.

A part of me prayed against your hips
To ask me
to slow down.

The other
Is so good with her tongue in cheek
She spun you out
Long enough to forget.

They say
easy girls are trouble.
I say
troubled
Are those that think so easy.

It’s complex work to nail yourself in this tight.

As you slept
I crawled out of bed
To ask the corner store clerk
How to love again?

He stared at me blankly
Asked for my ID
And handed me
My camel cigarettes.

We smoked them
As I couldn’t brake
My tongue long enough
For you
To catch your breath
To ask about the peeling tape.

You left exhausted.

I’ve been

Exhausted.

But today,
the homeless man on Broadway
held up a sign saying,
“shitty advice for a $1”
and he told me
to stop taking strangers’
words
so
seriously.

Hunger Properly

Dethrone virgins from pedstals.  It is the fulcrum to which sin teeters so closely.  Balk at this. Expose the dellecotage, by shifting hair from one side to the other, but reveal nothing.  Redemption is buried beneath velvet.  We are, but, saints, by proxy.  Good and Catholic.  Lick. Lick. Be more than hithered hips. Ghosts methodically haunt ear canals. Leaving murmurs to wrestle silence. Guttering through to tastebuds. Salivating sins. Fill in any missing trepidation. Start by genuflecting lips around hard endings.  Makeshift armor.  To desecrate the temple.  To beat the sea.  To tame the cunt.   Let breaths not scale goosebumps.  To be properly rot, let heart be too heavy for ribcages. Fault lines ache to be smoothed.  Etch and retrace them deeper. Do it right. Cracked can bring you closer to holey. Wholly.  Holy.  Maestro knows to turn up palms.  Repeat this.  Fake sacrifice. Want sacrifice.  Leave windtorn. Repeat.

Three Vignettes of the Same Vignette

I.          She was petals unfolding before me. Soft sand at my fingertips. I wanted to engulf her and be engulfed.  Be water upon her. I examined every fold of her. How moist she appeared. How she could be water upon me. With every breath I exhaled, she appeared to pulsate darker and wider for me. Writhing in lust. I was a mere man. A poet basking before L’Origine Du Monde.

II.        They set their books down long enough to interlock glances from their tables. He rose up from his table and walked over to her. She giggled and shook her head, extending her hand towards the empty chair. They read lines out loud from their books. His bookmark fell on the ground—a postcard of a painting he saw at Musée d’Orsay. A French painting translated to: The Origin of the World. After hours of exchanging poetry and laughter they walked to his apartment where whispers turned to kisses. She laid at the edge of the bed as he sat frozen before her. 

III.       He kissed in French syllables writing out l‘origine du monde with his tongue down to my hips. He pulled me by thighs to the edge of the bed. He sat in front of me. When I tried to raise my body up, he signaled me to lay back down.  I peered between my legs.  He was locked in thought. My lust turned nervous ache as he stared into me. I felt like a giant rabbit hole before him, like he was contemplating diving in after Alice.