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she licked his dick slowly
like she liked it.
I thought she liked it.
she was wearing a pink wig,
pink glitter lined her eyebrows and
two white roses in each corner.

and when she pressed her lips
to his tip he moaned
and I felt it like she was
there with me.
like she was doing it for me.
like she knew I was watching
or would be watching eventually.

 

and when I came,
I said her name
aloud but
s l o w l y like she
talks.”

 

“how guys save me in their phone #9’ or “synchronicity’

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“Strength does not have to be belligerent
and loud.”

I derive so much from one word.
pull from it.
it’s the synchronicity that
binds me and
the license plate that careened into the pole
instead of me that night read
“ prisons” and
I knew instinctively how
he felt.

tonight I’ll do:
a spring equinox meditation.
brush my teeth.
cut grapefruit for the morning
and ride the waiting out.
pay homage to my Pluto
and my Pisces in the
eighth inning.
my Venus nestled in her
vindication, her frequent
illicit engagements kept dark
in that dusty
twelfth house,
but she found a clean mirror and
she is undoing her bed.

i’m becoming a panacea of my own:
memory, tincture, flowers everywhere,
the fuss of first love never leading anywhere but
here in another meditation
on the river walk.
draw my poems out of the older sutures:
undo, redress, pamper the wounds .
think about it.
send you a letter.
remember the way grief sits,
unsettled, right after dusk,
right under your chest,
right under your breath:
a blue river from your fingers.
send you that letter
with my wounds
pasted
in the margins.
reminding you to
think about it.

 

pay homage to your Venus.
she is out
casting cars into ditches
while you cautiously wait
for lights to
change.
you are holding selenite
in your pocket
but your fingers still
curve and you are still
smirking,
standing where they
are now
sitting and
wilting
in screams,
it was the way you asked
in a bit of a curtsy:
one more chance
but you snap.

and they lose their
breath just like that.

 

“prisons” or “Venus in the 12th House” or “how guys save me in their phone #8th house”

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the boys I rescued
 and turned to saints;
their features outlined in
filthy thoughts    I

let them touch me with
rinsed fingertips,
watch them take great pleasure
in stroking the arches of my bare feet;
my callouses holding proof
of the miles I have walked
to hug the west.
better than my own docile traces
of lust pressed against them;
my own famished touch
as I dip into my cleft and whimper
because I can’t come big enough.
that sweaty heart of male violence,
male wants,
eroticized guns,
learn the art of being
enthroned in your
sex.
those biceped tongues,
those blue black nights where I fuck to get the
battle out so they don’t
 accidentally drown a garden
they were supposed to love.

 

other nights I do it hard,
grip the keys and shout sometimes;
let the room fill with copper, lick myself
from the chain,
taste my own
domination;
my submission to myself and
let you understand the dangers of
eroticized pain;
the art of being bled
for your sex.

 

smudged lip gloss
on their bare cheeks,
hosts
my undoing.
       teach me how to love like war
my persistent
bleating
inner child,
hands out and
crawling to you,
barely fed, swallowed by
red     lonesome and
under you,
next to you,
over you,
overdone,

 

but yet still a shadow
at your nightstand
waning in your rising
sun. 

 

“the martyr” (#7)

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smirk.

 black lipstick and naked eyes and
 lied about time when I asked her.
she looked at her wrist to
count the hearts but missed an
hour and she is
 dulled,
not rusty but
blunt and I know
when she walked away,
her hand was

steadily sharpening.

 

“how guys save me in their phone #6”

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I am giant:
strong legs, flexed tonsils,
tight back from climbing your forearms
to get to your mouth.    my nails are
filed and
 scratching at your chest
on the way there to let your home
 know what I own.
I compromise but I am
never quiet.

 

I’m full of bargains:

one dollar books and
 yesterday’s makeup,

hair knotted with
century old lesions and
 previous engagements so I
shave it off every chance
I get.
try to forgive myself for
such large displays of
arrogance.
you want me to comfort you in

cadence and
 I obey it
deriving satisfaction with the way
 my voice sounds
as I practice inflection surrounded
by mirrors
ending my prose in pointed questions
you will have to answer,

the pleasure of seeing my mask unfold
on screen        i’m paralyzed in heat
so I often freeze when confronted
but in between I leave
sweet, murmured ellipses
all over your body.


but know
I’m a noose so tight
 you try wearing me
like a loose fitting garment

or just one hard day’s night,
I might flinch and 

Milo, I might hang
you.

 

“Scorpio in South Node” (how guys save me in the phone #5)

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the first thing you notice about me is
the way I saunter
even to grab a ginger ale from the cooler
               “it’s my favorite.”
brush you, smile at your friends
and kind of swarm them
like an imposition
starting conversations about the
ludicrous state of things always alluding
to my prescience without
saying anything
you’ll say its the smirk I
 mastered not the crowd.

but then I retreat.
but then  I linger near the
exit the rest of the night with the crumpled straw
 in my hand
and the temper on my tongue
contained,
my earlier rage not expressed
or not handled as boldly
as it deserved to be;
the proclamations
the exits

I like way you held my hand
and said my name.
       my name is artemis.

sometimes buildings just catch on fire.
you say I always crouch with a
bow in hand.
            “I’m just nervous”
and that when I am lying I look away really
fast so you can’t see the sneer spread
and you know
I fucked your friends
and you know I’ll fuck some more
and you see me on the screen
 my name is Artemis.
parting lips, combing bangs,
practicing inflection as I said
I would.

you said you’ll always remember
the way I laughed LOUD
and so sudden
    touch his shoulder
like you were the funniest man in
the room.
and I’ll always remember
the way the door frame dripped
and bled to one sorrel-orange.
no, it’s not that you said yes.
you said “ok”
kind of folding,
tempering and allowing
which is the way I like
my men to lean.

I walked across the welcome mat
throwing matches as you swept,
the windows becoming a
 carrot color and me
disappearing.

“how guys save me in their phone  #4”

 

(13 odes to CKacyrek)

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December 18 2018

I am indecisive about my journaling. I don’t like seeing my apathy reflected back so cooly. I tape all the mirrors in my house again. I have three and they are all covered with sheets. It’s hard to look at yourself. I tell myself after tonight’s walk I will take more serious measures to ensure I do not, in fact, become myself again. But I will not journal tonight.

Tomorrow, I tell the cat. Tomorrow i will begin a severe monitoring of nefariousness. Send it to the trash. Learn to love. I want to sabotage you. 

No we aren’t doing that.

I wish people could just read my thoughts. I smoked three bowl hits and am too paranoid to leave the house so I pace the living room a while before heading out into the 45 degree weather. I am grateful for its warmth even though it’s night.

I am sore about us not talking but I hate you.

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December 17 2018

In which our comrades are betrayed, we freeze
And marvel at the smashing nonchalance
Of nature: what better way to test taut fiber
–sylvia plath

Maybe I will just write a quote down and leave it at that. I told my therapist I was trying to make a daily journal and she thought it was a good idea. I’m constantly perseverating around the way out. It will either be me jumping off a bridge and falling to the bottom of a river or it’s going to be more theatrical than that.

I’ve eaten three bananas
three and a half cups of coffee w vanilla almond milk
a handful of raw green beans
two bowls of popcorn

three mason jar glasses of water
some rice and left over dal
two packages of ramen with sriracha and peanut butter
about five grapes but will probably eat more.

I can’t get settled tonight and want to keep consuming. We are not even talking anymore and I am on fire. I don’t know how to get through these things without lying. I begin the big lie. 

I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.

 

 

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In which our comrades are betrayed, we freeze
And marvel at the smashing nonchalance
Of nature: what better way to test taut fiber
–sylvia plath

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