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…