the only things
i don’t blame him for
are all the earrings i lost
Tag: Passion
Categories
my lip gloss
every part of you
should taste
of it
Categories
his smoke will rise up forever
he was
the cigarette
i didn’t have
a match for
Categories
the first time
he made love to me
i had nothing
but frilly socks on
i find him in my library
pouring over volumes
on friendship
his dick is wagging
in a confused huff
but he says
it’s my mind
he wants to fuck
so i borrow
the archangel michael’s armor
so that he may see
my heart full of reverence
burning through gleaming breast plate
sword of vengeance unsheathed
crushing
cloven hoofed rudeness
beneath my high heeled feet
as i explain
i was born on the day of michaelmas
and
this shit won’t work
if i’m more of a man
than he
i’ll be his passion
madonna
mother
mistress
poet
princess
professor
prophet
plumber
wife
friend
sister
and priest
i shall deliver unto him
a pole dance upon the mount
in the end
all i want
is for him is to know
how to go about each day
joyfully
living in his own skin
the secret is learning humility
compassion granted
to those around us
a mind opened to receive
do not speak to me of god
or sin
heaven in the state of your soul
at the hour of your death
if you understand
then you may come and ride
your bicycle beside me
it happens somewhere in the moment
when you gently intrude your fingers
upon the back of his head
allowing them to wander his hair
stimulating willing skin
withholding all but your tongue’s tip
teasing him with glancing lips
your womanly softness
defined in that sacred place beneath the breast
pressed into the full length of him
that delicious instant you feel
the dam of his passions give way
all his blood and sense a torrent insisting
your thighs relent
to the poetry
the perverse hand of ruin
has raised my skirt
too many times
i should know better
than to look the monster in the eyes
my nightmare
has become
the manner in which i make my living
and
that which makes me passionate about living
are in direct opposition
my vengeance takes the shape
of william blake’s
“Death on a Pale Horse”
go make yourself ready
soon
i shall burn the sky
running off to feed my meter
outside the restaurant
i bumped into
a mutual friend of ours
finding the frigid city night
unfit for involved conversation
beyond hurried leather-gloved waves
icicles dangling
from steamy hellos
how-are-yous
and goodbyes
when a thought stopped my boots dead
on the sidewalk
a head turning notion
i should have asked him
if you were still alive
kentucky frost settled into my hair
when i realized
i had ceased to care
your heavy handed judgment
how no one is spared
the lucky strike meter stick
of your drunken mother’s eyes
it was that moment i cried
not for you
or us
but for the wasted time
black and white photos
of my ancestors line the walls
of my mother’s lavender bedroom
standing stoically on the farm
or in front of the church
aged beyond their years
their eyes filled with poverty
defeat
the fear of god
tobacco
polio
and pine boxes
not much separates a kentucky wedding
from a kentucky funeral
the country steals your innocence sooner
if love is a little girl
who emerged alive
from a tree lined morning
after being left behind in the darkest woods
to be eaten by wolves
then i have loved
if life is pain
exposed to the bone
so excruciating
i must write it down
building
sentences from it
to help me withstand
the weight of existence
then i have lived
and given the world two sons
you know what’s funny is
even as you were burying
your pen knife in my back
the good woman inside me
the part given to me by my grandmother
was trying to save you from his bloody sword
you can never say you weren’t told
and i am thankful to be reminded
how beautifully brutal life is
when we become our own agents
of instant karma
there is nothing left of your face
i guess some women just can’t get enough
of self-mutilation