in.
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
“how guys save me in their phone #9”
“But being self obsessed has its benefits,” she asserted.
She didn’t look at him the entire time she was speaking. There was a mirror on the wall.
“There may be a delay but you find it,” she looked sideways towards him briefly to let him know she still saw him. “I’ve clogged things with more diversion but I’ve found them. Overthinking creates stories and is another safety blanket, just like stuffing yourself with people, food, luxury, garments, money. It’s not at all satiating really.” She stuck her tongue out without noticing. “But those parables play tricks that lead you into places. Places that deserve to mourn, to breathe, be open. Let yourself bleed out and you discover some deep crevices that deserve to be abysmal. Deserve to be left alone once and for all.”
Her eyes darted a bit when she spoke. Not as if she was unsure but as if she was listening to someone else.
Glancing at the floor, she added, “The void. Some people don’t even know which wounds they are hiding, let alone which deserve to stay or how many times they can die and revive in one lifetime. They never even try.”
She shrugged, began to stand up.
“And you,” he raised his head to catch her eye. “The graceful phoenix.”
She had turned to walk away but her eyes caught him that instant.
“I do not burn to come back to life though,” she furrowed her brow.
“No?” he grinned, still sitting, staring up at her.
“No.”
Walking towards it, she kept her attention on the mirror. Attempting to flatten a strand of hair poking out, she marinated in his question. He sat with his hands in his lap in front of her, patient. He sat there like that for what felt like hours. She reveled in his eye. Her lips spread open suddenly into a slow, mirthless grin and she didn’t turn to look at him again.
“No, I am made of fire.”
“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
eight 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 braids.
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”
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”
leave you twisted
in want
like me and
deformed.
perfunctory
and evil like a tease,
slow to build and
protected by sheer
want
an alarm.
a storm brims the coast
and you start writing down
anything you remember
about me.
I am undulating in great
tidal gasps; a siren
sights set on horizon,
humming low, humming
softly and
come in closer
splayed across the break.
your arid soul is thirsty for the
new oasis I’ve become
but your obtrusive leaps
are doused in hex
before they ever reach me.
you are responsible for
some of this and
I am responsible for
that.
my bed is soaked
and I am angry.
black in vengeance cloaks
in white to walk the streets
the way furtive angels might.
you send me butterflies
at night
to assuage me.
I return the offer:
I dress in wings,
suck the nectar from the
dusk’s flowers,
learn her tales,
twist into my final form:
a long nightmare,
black hairy legs and
two tagmata,
one long dry choke
at the stroke of
3:33 every
morning onward.
you spend the year immured
in poetry and pieces
of half finished themes
obsessing over everything
you turn to see.
over everything you thought you
saw out of your
unrelenting periphery,
how many twins do I own?
thought you
dreamed and wrote
down, unwind,
which moon did I come out of
and how many wolves
did I set free last night?
I become immune.
you become the
stranded calf in
my forest while
I spend the year
immersed in baths of
black obsidian and
forgetting what it
ever meant to
me.
“us, reversing”
I take my chances and
ask for the exorcism after I heard a
tiny moan in my throat that came from
another woman when I tried to swallow
and lost my breath instead.
no one makes fun of me ever again.
It was like that my whole life. Not the scene played out although I did test a man long enough for him to wrap his hands around my throat and slam me on a bed. More the feeling of a vengeful conqueror behind me, beside me and not feeling threatened for safety but image. I became preoccupied with the bruise the rest of the walk. A thumbprint and him, I wanted to remember him shuddering slightly, recoiling at the sight of me. Yes, here are things I will do. I began to list them out loud in public. I used my thumb to start the count so the next man I passed near a storefront knows I am serious.
1.I would push a man in front of a moving truck if he ever threatens my life.
2. I would change direction on the street to avoid someone right in front of them.
3. I would steal from everyone.
I always mentioned survival but never my gluttony. I never mentioned my temper. Writers learn to show it so do dancers. I began lining my pockets with trinkets and stones and watching myself become a pretty painted pink teapot I notice as I passed store windows.
“That motherfucker left a mark,” I say a few times outloud as I begin my trek back, unsure if I’m right but then I check.
It was like that my whole life. Not the scene played out although I did test a man long enough for him to wrap his hands around my throat and slam me on a bed. More the feeling of a vengeful conqueror behind me, beside me and not feeling threatened for safety but image. I became preoccupied with the bruise the rest of the walk. A thumbprint and him, I wanted to remember him shuddering slightly, recoiling at the sight of me. Yes, here are things I will do. I began to list them out loud in public. I use my thumb to start the count so the next man I pass near a storefront knows I am serious.
1.I would push a man in front of a moving truck if he ever threatens my life.
2. I would change direction on the street to avoid someone right in front of them.
3. I would steal from everyone.
I always mentioned survival but never my gluttony. I never mentioned my temper. Writers learn to show it so do dancers. I began lining my pockets with trinkets and stones and watching myself become a pretty painted pink teapot as I passed poor storefronts.
“That motherfucker left a mark,” I saw a few times outloud as I begin my trek back, unsure if I’m right but then I check.
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