3/30

Desperation snuck in with the bees. I woke up ugly every day for a year, venomous tongue. My shoulders were icebergs of 'don't touch.' There was no map for when our bed became an ocean so we used our pillows for flotation devices. Slept holding our breath. The bees were making a hive in your chest so we dreamed of sawmills and neon. We never knew, but every time your mouth opened the buzz was deafening.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

All caught up!

10/30 dreamed again. tonight I dreamed of making muffins and babies. I told you (unexpectedly) that you were the only man I'd ever want to make babies with and you told me I was beautiful every day for two-hundred-sixty-six days. we named our children Sweetbelly and Stickylove and when they were outside, we kept them in fruit trees and when they were inside we kept them in our arms. This is how they never learned the feet/ground rules. Then, when we loved too much, we would have to go check on the tomatoes. dreamed again. we didn't have a dishwasher, so that I could take my time with all those muffins. I smiled and told Sweetbelly to be careful. She had jam on her face and it was scorpion season; so then you wrote poetry about scorpions and jam--about sweet tomatoes and muffins. and when it was late at night I would wake and find you rocking Stickylove and fatherhood carefully in your arms--the way my mom used to find dad. Lost in that rocking chair; and then I would lov...
Read more

Hardwood Floors and Quiet. (For Monica)

Our lives got quiet then. We have finished having the kinds of parties where everyone dances until five in the morning, where the punch bowls get spilt on the floor and by the end people have given up on mixing drinks all together because nobody really does know who that one guy in the suit is and we aren’t sure whose locked themselves up in the downstairs bedroom, but chances are they don’t live here and does anybody know why Jodi is taking her panties off in the stairwell again? And we don’t throw parties, don’t throw much of anything. Don’t need to. Our lives got knit-a-sweater quiet. Cut the corn off the cob kind of quiet. Quiche and Frittata and knowing the difference quiet. We have finished with the lost boys. The ones we fucked to keep them quiet and then sent home before the sun came in the window because we needed our sleep. Done with the recycled boys who took turns being something that was better than nothing between the sheets and when we looked up we laughed because we ...
Read more

feelin saucy

So, I was writing this poem while taking trains and buses all around Chicago, running errands and I was standing in the Post Office prepping packages when I figured out the ending and I had to grab the chained down pen and write "naked, ice cream" on my hand. I hope the lady behind me in line was confused, frightened, excited...what have you. 22/30 On Purpose for RQT Lets have casual sex. I will talk about the weather. You can leave your socks on and we won’t even turn off the light. That way we can critique one another fairly. With a critical eye. Like you would an exhibit at the science museum—like a diagram in How Things Work and I will point out my flaws like they were brush strokes. These stretch marks may have gone unnoticed if the lights were off, if Barry Manilow had been on. And after I make these observations you will use some great cliché line like No, baby you are beautiful , (suggesting that my speaking brush stroke facts negates beauty). And after you...
Read more