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.