all the trash cans get stolen
so people bag up their trash,
litter bags, pizza boxes, futon springs,
mb drive, colonies of lone shoes,
and they throw it on the sidewalk
so if you happen to be walking
you get a whiff of everyone’s little whittled life.
It smells like government fingers and quiet hurts.
This is a concrete cell.
“kensington in january”
I have eight dollars in my savings account.
I thought I would move to Philly
to make something of myself,
and I laugh because
who says that?
i go on a smolder binge.
lick my lips
like you are licking me
from inside
the lens
my lips are drier
than they look,
pursed slightly,
fuschia with a hint of quiver,
black corset with the straps
pulled down to reveal
soft breasts and
rock hard shoulders
used to baring the brunt
of the pain they
spill to me
and expect me to carry.
I trace a broken nail
over the length of my clavicle
to remind the camera
I have been touched
before.
he says my eyes are “bright”
and pauses for impact.
they are traced with
sharp blue pen
smudged with charcoal and
unblinking, wide open
ready to receive and a very
false articulation of how
I actually feel
when touched.
as if a question appeared,
I answered,
I am usually shut tight,
braced for impact
thinking of finger-filled nights,
someone else’s on mine,
sternum pillows,
tonight im
missing hem,
torn stockings,
dirty feet and unkempt nails
with grime underneath
picking at the past.
its perpetual,
a haunting you can’t
name,
your death or
is it everything in
between?
“vanity”
I come over wearing everything
I own
so it takes forever to get to
the bottom of things, and
you take forever to say
anything
we take our time licking at the scratches.\
the wounds from the boulevards
stay wide open
like our suspicions,
a flood when teeth are involved.
we drown in each other’s
solipsist phrases
keep going
you taste a tad like probity
ruined but I can’t tell if it’s
me or the other ones doing it.
i feel a lot like chapel steps.
but taste like others’
men and
i look like
what do I look like?
like someone waiting
An estuary of first thoughts and
what color is that bruise?
Forced life into this ossuary,
forced me to take progestin,
forced me to give birth to nothing but a long
dictionary of underused adjectives and
nothing ever sticks.
The paper was lined with my hurried tonic of
spite and estrogen and sealed with your
brusque argument against it.
“colorado” or “plan B”
vampire is my baddest,
most lustful need;
my need for everything.
I grow sharper as I walk,
as I cut through little groves of
mirror yous, trying to withstand
it.
I become an amethyst
at first sight of
you, opening,
unraveling each sharp edge
Of the hedge of the
labyrinth whirling above our
heads.
I didn’t create this myth,
but I did begin it.
“Lilith”
when women have been intimidated by me
I have been gentle
When men have been intimidated me
I have been sharp
I already know where my loyalties
Lie
“Lilian”
men want to protect me,
naturally, I’m precocious
without boundaries.
I allow them a distance.
a shadow walking behind me
nightly as I prowl
without motive.
but lately,
I see a silhouette
coming towards me.
what firepower does love have?
they read my words out loud
and curse themselves
“spells”
I think at some point
you have earned the right to say
I know because I lived it
without acquiescing to
authority.
“stasis”
We were cities. Tiny cities lined with beaches. Strips of sand. Abandoned grit castles. Parapets. Insects climbing silt balconies. Teeny tiny ants looking up at the tiny grit terrace. Ants floating in the moat. Dead. Salt shells. Skeletons. Bones buried under crabs. Looking at the clouds. Looking at the clouds. Wishing we were cities. Being swallowed by tsunamis. Over and over, wishing we were bigger. Could walk on water. Wishing we were big clouds that passed over great big cities. Like tsunamis. Dead. We were grains buried in each other, trying to be countries.
‘colorado”
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