the skulk,
scent, need for slow chase.
salivation with a .
wide open stance,
arms spread,
lips like decanter,
trickling:
it is with love that I do this.

oh, you always say that.

*snaps* to wake
up.   tips a holy red.
I begin to grow inches and
let my long nails
trail the arms of strange
wool peacoats on my way to
the El,
or nowhere.
just circling Girard for fun.

It’s the middle of December
and I made rent.
I sort of grimace as
I sway the town, head to
toe in unbought clothes,
heeled boots,
hips flexed and
recently fucked.
let my hand hit the elbow
of an unsuspecting man,
unfucked, soon to
be turning around and
catching a flash of my
back, purple mock wool
and  hear the clack
of my shoes walk
away.
it is with love
they say.

“the honey trap”

0

Part 5: The act of maiming things (iteration)

“Everything has happened.”–Sylvia Plath

0

I start by slaughtering your brothers
in front of you to see
if you can stand it.

“13.” or “sekhmet” or “rage”

0

you and I are from
the same place.
I start to pace
the block once more.
my fingers
on the handle
but in my own yard.

my steps are ever
silent and my
dry lips pursed
lightly, pucker,
press the back of your neck
as you stand face forward
 to my closed
front door.
lick the last drop
of cedar cologne
as I wrap my
pointy candy-apple
 colored nails
around your
throat.

and I  start humming.

“rage”

0

when do you decide to kill and what
stops you?
God.
pause.
uncertain
of myself.

and what do you want to learn from all
of this? she waves her hands over
the fire.
 pause.
 uncertain of
myself.
but there are the men
and they are giant
but it is not just men
the things that I’m bound
by, namely vitriol,
a weakness, how they
pervaded throughout my
gelid days when I could
have been comfortable in gray
cocoon save these little birds
and having no
right to be there, I can’t decide
if it is better for me
to keep my hands pressed
firmly together or

 will you teach me how to kill
my God?

or if it is better palms
open in subservience
to her.

“Hecate”

0

you know I’m dense.
ice cold, flush with
forked tongue ready to
puncture someone.

  i’m lush;
maintaining a sense of
dam and containment
even in my most berating
fits of temper or panic,
I manage to remain
frozen these days
like a cracking lake.
you say I am
sharp and
bitter.

but underneath my skin,
that blue-lace casing,
a carnise river:
little tributaries to
the turning of the world
in linear order.
delivery is bitter.
and you say
casually, so
full of rage. 

“the doe”

0

precocious and blazing
hot, I become
a long bending desert to
warm you up:

fields of sand to cover,
infinite high noon run,
no moon to come,
hollowing the others with
deprivation,
promising mirages,
a wide and weaving
ever-longing
desiccation,
sudden sidewinders and a
slow and draining
drip that never hits and
dehydration,
never an inch of rain

and you
find every trap
I laid.

“the desert”

0

what does all of this
mean to you?
wave to no one, fixed
on the corner of
an antlered profile
in the corner of a
smudged mirror.

you say it’s important,
ask me to tell it in
“linear order”
but how can I get away with
things telling stories
with honesty?
I have survived time
and cage and aged
in linear order.
my proof:
          I flex a ripped tricep
endless strength and

 brimming veins
that have learned how to
whistle when your girl
walks by me.

‘the doe”

0

I went from being a frozen tundra:
algid, wide and growing fields of
ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow
unless the wind was kind
and left the prints
which it wasn’t often.

taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak;
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while
before we  cut those
meek coughs off.
before they form into spit,
white noise, handwritten
cards,

I sprout into a raging sun

“the desert”

0


taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak;
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while before we
cut those
meek coughs off
just as they start.
before they form into spit,
white noise, handwritten
cards,

I sprout into a raging sun.

0

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑