this next section is called:
philadelphia or the alligator
one day I heard encroaching
steps and turned around
just for the scent
of it. sometimes men
sniff your hair when
you sleep and enter you
before you wake up
just for the scent of it.
“the black book”
“You fit into me like a hook
into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye.”
call him up,
read a passage.
when he tells you he wishes
you were dead, laugh, say
me too and try not to think about
it. write the ways they raped you
with honor like
it’s a badge to be a
daughter; forlorn
on cream-colored carpet
in the barracks
after high school
being fucked on tequila
by someone else’s
husband.
call him up and
share a little something.
when he tells you to get lost,
go buy five plane tickets
somewhere exotic and
send him a postcard that says
i wish you were here.
cry cry cry and then get your palm read.
write the book
but no one ever talks
about the sharpness of
sudden affluence, success
and tarot spreads
that name him
your most worthy adversary
yet.
I begin to weigh the scales:
what’s the probability
that illusion grows legs
or that imagination is laden
with foresight?
you see if I don’t begin to
think this way, I will
begin to cross the bridge
and when my foot hits the
concrete, I want to
leap, arms spread.
it’s not about anyone coming
back. it’s about me
accepting love is a double edged
sword and I’m a fucking
whore. isn’t that what
you told your friends?
that you can’t date
a whore like that.
and to end the poem
graciously, i want you to
feel the pins sticking out
of your eyes before you
taste the thumbtacks.
it’s not voodoo,
dear, it’s the way I write.
they say I’m
bitter. they say some
whores are so bitter
but well at rhymes.
“brine”
he wants to know,
appease the fella:
motherfucker if I have not clapped this
back with open mouth:
I
have
done
this
before.
my writing process:
thought, beat, tone or simple note in phone.
elongate into rhythym, find your step in cadence, and blossom.
begin to jot more notes down so you do not lose the feeling.
return to sitting.
delete all that felt superfluous or was more private:
like how many times you became suicidal in private.
begin to elongate in fluid cadence.
is this a story or a poem?
choose your book and place it.
rough draft it.
edit.
step away
edit.
choose your book and place it.
go for the next walk.
I begin to weigh the scales:
what’s the probability
that illusion grows legs
or that imagination is laden
with foresight?
you see if I don’t begin to
think this way, I will
begin to cross the bridge
and when my foot hits the
concrete, I want to
leap, arms spread.
it’s not about anyone coming
back. it’s about me
accepting love is a double edged
sword and I’m a fucking
whore. isn’t that what
you told your friends?
that you can’t date
a whore like that.
“the bridge #1”
my partner turned to me
so matter of factly
as we ate vegan nachos
I had made, and said
this is a place to cut your teeth
and then leave.
“Philadelphia”
daturamoon.com 