| Soap |
[Jul. 11th, 2010|07:05 pm] |
Soap
Walking through the door of his apartment, like waking up with his face against mine
No roommate, cat, dinner on the stove,
To hide the smell of him
We haven't been together for three years
Not like that
With wandering hands and alcohol-flavored kisses
Circumstance and miscommunication got in the way
I have flown to a foreign city for him
Shaky because this trip depends on him completely
His transportation, his knowledge, his bed
He only shuffles us in the door and gestures to the bathroom.
I walk through his bedroom
Wondering how is it possible for his scent to assault me more
On this side of the door
My nose says my face is buried deep in his hair
Recalling his kisses on my neck
Thankful I can let my knees buckle when I get to the toilet
In his tiny room I put my suitcase into the corner by the bed
Its quilted bedspread, a touch of his sweat soaked in
I am sinking into him, wrapped up in him, breathing him
He doesn't touch me that night
The room is warm and text message bravery fades when he can see my face
I wonder if he regrets his invitation
Curled resolutely at the other edge of the bed
He told me he wanted me "of course"
Showering alone when he has left for work the next day
Wondering if he left a key out for me
His soap masculine on my body
Slathering lavender conditioner and vanilla lotion
To remind me who I am
But beneath, he will be on my skin all day
A whiff of shampoo when I toss my hair
Mounting hope with every breath
Will he touch me tonight or will I settle again for his soap in the morning? |
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| Sports |
[Jul. 10th, 2007|12:27 am] |
We are stuck here
In a sport where nobody moves
And the ball drops dead to the floor.
Unable to move or even look at each other,
We stare at the lifeless orb on the ground,
Half-heartedly hoping the other will kick first,
But afraid of no one kicking at all.
Not able to walk away
In case it might begin to move on its own.
Compelled to stay there and watch, wait for the ball to move:
We cannot turn our backs. |
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| fee fi fo fum |
[Mar. 4th, 2007|07:55 pm] |
I had to cut this stanza when reducing a double ballade to a regular ballade, but I'm going to try to use it alone or in something else, cuz I really like it.
When you come my heart to reap
To use as flour to make your bread
When you find me in a heap
When all the blood within me’s bled
Your mouth and hands then painted red
From all the flesh you bit and clawed
You might despair to find me dead
So I write you this ballade |
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| An Interview With God |
[Nov. 16th, 2006|01:08 am] |
I had this idea earlier cuz I had an interview which was more than anything a formality, which is good, cuz during that interview I decided I am the worst interviewee ever. Still, you have to admit it'd throw you for a loop if you were asked "Tell me a secret" in an interview. (And the last 3 questions: 1)What is your name? 2)What is your quest? 3)What is your favoite color?--See, I'd know how to answer the swallow one!) Anyhow, I thought it'd be funny to imagine what God would ask in an interview, and if I would have to pass an interview portion to get into heaven. This is all I've got so far. Suggestions for additional questions requested, and, of course, criticism greatly appreciated.
An Interview With God
He said to me: What will you bring to this organization?
And I thought, fumbled for words because "sarcasm" was not a good answer.
He said to me: Why do you want this position?
And I couldn't think of an answer beyond "It's better than the alternative."
He asked me: What are your strengths and weaknesses? (As if he didn't know!)
And I knew that, no matter how true, being a perfectionist is a cliche, and that "cute and charming" does not constitute a strength.
He asked me: What is your reason for leaving your previous job?
Old age? Too much excitement? A passing fancy--or bus? Maybe I just got bored.
And at the end of it all we shook hands and He said He would call and let me know. |
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| Satisfaction in Persona |
[Nov. 1st, 2006|12:30 am] |
Here it is! Me in print! Isn't it neat?
Sorry the image is so small. It's not the best version of that poem anyway.
This is:
Satisfaction
I want to lick 60’s rock and roll off your chest:
Morrison from your collarbone,
Hendrix from your navel,
Jagger lingering down your hipbone.
Murky echoes of chords buzz through my nervous system,
Their vibrations still in my toes, my legs.
They are heavy and dark, sweet and delicious
Bricks of ambrosia, burying me.
They permeate the air, Echoing, Sticky.
Molasses-thick smoke condensing,
Pooling in the hollows of your flesh.
Each note a shot of ecstatic gin
That rests thick on my tongue,
Burns my throat all the way down.
Sweet spectre of sound, vinyl-slick
Body swirling in my head.
Your body, sticky sweet
Will linger beyond the record’s end. |
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| Summer |
[Sep. 5th, 2006|09:38 am] |
Made with fridge magnets:
Summer
Lick up beauty
Drive out frat men
Drink through exams |
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