Blasphemer

Despite the praises

that came chanting

from my lips

last Sunday morning,

I don't pray.

My panted sighs

of "Oh my God"

escaped between

clenched teeth,

filling your right ear,

leaving the left free

to listen

if my grandparents

would return early

from church.

Piano Fingers

Five extremities creep,
daintily, and uncertain
across the sheets --
sliding along
like running scales on a piano
until they stop at those long desired
slender ivory keys
and claim them.
Your thumb plants itself over mine,
and our fingers weave together,
finally.

Disclaimer

Not only can you lie, you also shouldn't tell everything.

poetic license - license used by a writer or artist to heighten the effect of their work; freedom to deviate deliberately from normally applicable rules or practices (especially in behavior or speech)

Bent

Years of plié, plié,
have strengthened my thighs
for climbing into backseats,
parked in backstreets,
and onto your lap,
where there's room
to stretch out (comparably)
and spread my legs
as if they were in 2nd position.
I kept thinking of us from 1993,
bending in half,
hairlines meeting the bowls
made from our cupped feet,
as a warm-up,
while I was bent
up against the steering wheel
of your mother's SUV,
and how you don't think I have cooties anymore.

Happiness is colors, at 2:14 am

I am an expat to this reality,
relished without relinquish
by those that think verbalization

is the sole means of communication.

A raise in volume,
speaking slower,
gesturing wildly,
makes no difference
because they don't

speak my language, or care to.

So I speak theirs,
bumbling and about to burst
while my kinsman remains quiet.
He might as well be withholding
air while i'm gasping, grasping
for a gulp to fill my stifled lungs,
suffocating in his silence,
when I hear a snatch of familiar speech
and I surface,
I breathe easy,
inhaling your perfumed oxygen,
your weighty words.

He was yellow.
But you,
loose lipped
and strong jawed,
you could be ultramarine blue
deep, and warm, and I could sink into you.

Interior Studio

Just as stars,

only hear tales of her

glory, her radiance,

catching peeks of her

crown creeping

over the horizon,

I am banished

to the dark

and the

cool grays

and warm yellows

of artificial light.

Marked

Frail ghosts

of fireworks

trickle down

her pale palms,

after an untimely

explosion,

staining her pure skin

blue. Like the putrid

blue in the breasts

and thighs of

Renoir's

ghastly women.

(Ugh, Renoir.)

She left the pen,

oozing,

on the bench

in front of the

Toulouse-Lautrec

without remorse

and washed her hands

of the scribbles

any child

could do.

My subconscious is trying to be a poet.

C is for craving

Gravity fills our breaths.

-written on the side of a building in my dream

A chance of rain

This weather reminds me

of Cape May in June,

two years ago,

when it rained for a month straight.
The skeletons of sea creatures

still take up space

in the trunk of my Chevy.

I collected as many as my greedy hands (and feet)

could carry, as if I had found

hidden treasure at Higbee Beach.

But I lost you,

that small thing

I couldn't manage to hold onto.

Notches (03/15/2011)

I need to put

some more digits

between us.

Days, area codes,

men. But

I've already run out

of fingers

to count.

Arrangements of illusionary space on a 2 dimensional plane (03/1/ 2011)

I can't think of a worse

insult than:

darling,

you have no depth.

Untitled 2/04/2011

My eyelids flutter softly while I'm grasping onto the last moments of my dream, your mouth on my...before I forge...I've forgotten. The sun creeps over my window and slowly crosses my face, streaking in stripes, through the slits of my blinds against my pink paint, like temporary wallpaper.

I catch you out of the corner of my eye, my first few breathes of the day sending you into a tizzy. Thin and malleable, a thread, or a fuzzy, I watch and discover as I inhale and you waver, exhale and you spin, joyfully, in tune with the rthymic heave of my chest. I don't like that your life is dependent on my every breath, so I must crush you. With a quick pinch, and flick, your movement's extinguished and the air is my own once more.

- I never posted this for some reason, but I just found it and kind of like it.

Sleepwalker

You visit me

in the morning

without permission.

Like a sleepwalker,

you'll never know

the promises you whisper,

the woman you hold,

the bed you frequent,

blocks south

of your own,

when you awaken.

Artists Support Euphemisms

I fantasize about you,

gold rectangles

and red dots.

Colorful shapes

have come to take

the place of

an imagined lover

during interludes

and at nighttime.

And I rather profess

my desire of having

you on my arm,

and not get you,

than be lying that

I never wanted you anyway.

Gas light

You remind me

of the traffic light

on the corner of 8th St,

and Cecil B Moore,

which reads both

yellow and green.

I can blame it

on faulty wiring

in its indented base,

disfigured by drunken

hit and runs.

But with you,

it comes easier

to assign myself

as the culprit

of some wrong doing,

real or imagined.

A wounded animal's lament

1.

I'm tired of being the wolf,

ravished and snarling,

circling patiently for the

slightest nibble of

a bit of meat.

I'd rather starve.

2.

I dream that I have

a new wool coat,

soft and white, unlike

Philadelphia snow,

stomped with grime

from excessive habitation,

and plotting retaliation

with her hardened black ice.

It covers my weather beaten

form, which spells out

my bad decisions, embedded,

in ink.

3.

If I play hard to get,

will you chase me?

Like children calling

duck, duck, goose,

when I tap your shoulder,

will you rise to the challenge

and bring me down,

ripping open my neck

in your conquest,

and then savor your meal,

or abandon me for the vultures?

Constricted

The space between

the mattress and my neck

houses your arm, splayed out

as if in a thrust for territory.

If the roles were reversed,

a thousand needles would be jabbing

me awake, with the pressure from your frame.

But instead, my sleep is stolen

by the jut of your bicep

concluding there is no rest

for the meek.

Hunters

Sometimes I keep watch
to see when you're fishing

for a fresh catch,
small and slippery
and too nimble to let you
insert your hook.
Your bow, poised and ready,
or just posturing?
We both know you aren't
flexible enough to shoot an arrow,
thrown off balance before the zip
squish, and ping.

While you don't speak
as loudly as I do, (you can blame it
on my upbringing, and you have)
you still manage to make enough noise,

dragging your foot with it's rhythmic thud,
the sound of your gait thumped
forever into my memory,
to frighten off females,
even more finicky and capricious than you.
And like a beggar
who has bathed and shaved
revealing eyes much too close together
and slightly drooping,
your nose spindly and rat like,
shoulders hunched, spine twisted,
no amount of preening
will keep them from getting too close,
not that you'd let them.

It's sad that money can't buy you
prowess, or affection,
because that's all you have,
perhaps the illusion of it,
but that's good enough for you, right?
And sooner or later you'll stumble upon
someone feeble, tame, limping,
that I'd pray for, if I prayed,
who will swoon, much like I did
before I grew horns, and hooves
to fend off those too weak
to capture me.

Keith Haring, I wish I had a dick for you (1/19/11)

I have a feeling
I’m choosing the wrong men.
Whichever folded slip of paper
that grants me the privilege

of selection
whether through fate,

or consequence,

(I'm not picky)

when I withdraw my hand
aims my attention
toward whoever’s pants
to insert it into next.

And that pair of beaded earrings
I bought in Chinatown,

for six bucks,
that I flung on your nightstand
when their swing became

distracting,
and those almost, but not quite,
brand new leggings
with the pre-made rips
crumpled somewhere
among your used boxers,
that I abandoned
in a hurry to creep out
while you were asleep,
I’ll just have to do without,

since I've been getting by

with no dignity.

Broad and Cherry (1/15/11)

I don't get hit on walking to school in December, unlike the warmer months when Broad Street might as well be a batting cage, patroned by over zealous black guys, smoothy inept and trying to land a swing. Woolen layers of clothing deter potential suitors from sizing up my heaving ass as I hustle to get it to class, only ten minutes late.

Because lets face it, your "Let me get your number" after that introductory "You are so..." 1. beautiful 2. gorgeous 3. attractive or any other generic aesthetic description has nothing to do with getting me to talk, but working toward hearing me scream 1. Oh my god! 2. Fuck, yes 3. your name, before you even care to ask me my own.

Now, my mornings are only filled with slush, keeping my gloved hands warm in ripped pockets, and homeless men, who aren't exactly spitting out compliments, but are spitting out...something, who prefer instant gratification of rolled paper over sprawled digits, and I find myself preferring, yes, the thoughtless, but the said.

Craving (1/13/11)

I want to taste you.
I’ll put up with second hand smoke
to let my tongue sample
your cold,
nicotine tinged,
mouth.

Grasping your hand,
up to my nose,
like how my Grandmother licks her plate
for the last tiniest bit of flavor,

to smell the tips
of your fingers,
still lingering with the ghosts
of your Camel cigarettes,

which have seeped

their characteristics upon you

after years of repetition.

But even I have levels I won't stoop,

like accompanying you

outside in bad weather

when your habit is prohibited,
(you’re on your own)
or sharing in a drag,
as to not get too accustomed
to associating vice
with pleasure.

So while you're refining

your motor skills,

that graceful grip,

the rise and fall

of the last one before bed,

I inhale deeply

to get a whiff of that spot
in the middle of your chest,

marked by a school-boy tuft of hair,

substituting you as a pillow

since extra ones are sparse,

filling my lungs

with the aroma

of the essence of you,
and no tobacco could be as satisfying,

or as sweet.

All's Fair (12/23/10)

Like two generals

we sit, opposite each other,

avoiding, no, making,

eye contact over a feast, so called,

with lowered expectations,

as we discuss our battle plan.

Conversing about old confidants,

as you butter your toast

and I rip off my crust,

which you said obviously

marked me as an only child.

Cursing the sons-of-bitches

under our breath at revealed betrayals.

Cowardly deserters, selfish mutineers,

who sabotaged past proposed operations.

But we miss them, regardless.

Must one break alliances

to form new ones?

I wish it were as simple

as asking “Who’s side are you on?”

But it isn’t. And I won’t.

We could grid it out,

like the distribution of syrup

to each waffle’s square.

Which holes can

and can not be filled.

We could space it out.

Limit the number of hours

we spend not sleeping

in your bed;

Your Raphael face

in close proximity to

my Renaissance body.

Anything to postpone the inevitable.

So then, we agree,

the coffee gone cold,

we’ll keep each other in check.

Territorial queens desperate

to defend their domain.

Our arsenal equipped with weapons

of mass construction.

Paint, brushes, and pencils.

Winning, not capturing hearts.

But isn’t this discussion

a little premature considering

we’re only moving out our pawns?

We both know you can’t put guidelines

on these things, but we’re gonna try.

You do know what they say…