aayoungthe longer we live
we learn that reality
is volatile
changeable
an inconstant lover
ah, but…
what would have been…
what amounts to regret
what amounts to loss
is god damned indestructible
iron ore into steel
& then forever
when life has taught you
all love ends
in pain
it becomes easy
to extinguish every flame
but not him
he’s my trick candle
he burns brighter
the more i try to blow
i have learned
to stop blustering
enjoy the party
and eat
the damned cake
never confuse
love poems
for love
you’ll get cut in half
every time
i’ve painted all of it
on the ceiling of the library dome in alexandria
to study the profane scope
better understanding the history
the higher i ascend
through falling ashes
this is what i know
my interpretation of the pattern
you only acknowledge the sacred
as you seek to destroy it
you’re sick
pathological
oh
how
you take such pride in your trophies
heads mounted on the wall
all wearing your mother’s pearls
the manner in which your
opossum eyes delight
in fresh kill
wax romantic about your bloody left hand
as you arrange dead flowers
i’m impervious ever since
you gouged out my ability
to experience pathos
after three forays through college
trying to cope with the evolving deeds
of dirty politicians
i will die owing our grand government
money
for my higher education
unless i can land
a good job
as a high class call girl
sucking cock
laughing at unfunny jokes
and taking it up the ass
for no less
than 1,000 dollars
a night
yeah, baby
i could have this shit licked
in the same amout of time
moses was driving the love boat
across the dead sea
is it sad
i think the only downside of this
is my time becoming so sacrosanct
i’ll never get to my laundry
his hands clasped
my face
as he moaned
kissed
and prayed
into my mouth
in two languages
his utterances
dismissing decades,
“I’ve never kissed lips like these…”
there is a place
hidden
just behind my hairline
an indention in my skull
only reachable by a loving hand’s touch
made by the steel flying jump boot
of a shamed airborne soldier
i tried to play house with
when i was a freshly liberated
ingénue of age sixteen
i don’t remember what i said to elicit that well thrown response
he knocked the memory right out of me
but i’m sure it was the proper military stratagem
for defeating a mouthy bitch
he was an expert marksman who hit his target
certainly a custer decision
from time to time i still rub it
and think of him sobbing
pleading
begging me to be okay
as my head swelled with the fluid of his remorse
drifting in and out of consciousness
on the couch
the only thing i know now
is how tragically little
i knew then
i’ve since forgiven him
but he taught me a lesson i’ll never forget
and have since used to survive
a reminder in the form of a permanent crack
in my young, impressionable head
by four pm each day
she begins to unravel
the wait
of the separation from mother and father
her room and all things familiar
becomes too great
for her two year old soul to carry
she brings me the clifford’s big red easter book
and asks,
“miss weesha, pweese read to me again?”
i am incapable of saying no to her
she proceeds to ask me to reread the book
a minimum of ten more times
i no longer need to look at the pages
when she is certain the big red dog has his easter basket
and she should be crawling out of my lap
she says,
“miss weesha, pweese hold me till mommy gets here…”
i am incapable of saying no to her
so we grab another book…
and i no longer need to look at the pages