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.