Dear Darling,
Day. Darling dear. Today, I woke up. I stabbed the bottom of my foot on the pointed tongue of my belt that I left on the floor from the night before. But I hopped. Foppishly. Got in the car. Went ridin' to your door. Knock knock. You there? Dear? Knock knock. Darling? I went around. I did. To the window. Looked through the back, it was cracked. So, I billowed in. Smoke stacks. Your throat smacks. Not coughs. Not clearings. Your unhappy snap-backs. I don't like snap-backs. But, I've got a strong back. Upright. You're uptight. I wrote to you. This letter. I read to you, this letter. I tell you things like. Girl, I wish I was gay. Men could never make me feel quite this way. She looks un-mellow. I don't wanna say cold. Ice cold. It's too overdone. Cliché. I needed a phrase to run fresh my way, but the only thing fresh my way was me and this letter. Hear me. Hear me. I knew you couldn't wait. For me to make some mistake. Maybe the same mistake as one of my many mistakes. One of the many mistakes that I'm unaware I make. One extra reason for you to think I'm a flake, or that I'm like a fly on a wall continuously landing, forgetting that every time I do I vomit. That's the pain of being awake. But. Not today. No. No. Today. My letter. That I wrote for you, inevitable you. Astoundingly predictable. Just waiting for me--you. I'm not gonna hold it in. I want you to know now, I called this in. There's not much to say that I know the insanity in...being with you.
Love,
Your man.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Melt (poem)
Melt
Either air that has color, must that I can swim through
filling my lungs like the bad drink;
Or swarms of tiny things with needle faces poking
red insecurities, itchy mounds.
Either the exploding heat of leather exposed to leg
and frion-less AC blowing murky from vents;
Or a selfish sun screaming from two surfaces,
sucking liquid from skin--leaving red and thirsty.
Imagine a departure from sameness, particles of sweat
dangling from anxious hairs. It's a sunken highway,
an underpass away from the scenic route.
The swells of swelter like erasers clapping against dusty
chalkboards, forgetting what was written and recalling
only the cough caused by all those particles that collected,
a cork in your throat.
Don't tell me fun and sell me on breezes and beaches,
because you will fail as we all do
as gawky creatures. As we do.
Either air that has color, must that I can swim through
filling my lungs like the bad drink;
Or swarms of tiny things with needle faces poking
red insecurities, itchy mounds.
Either the exploding heat of leather exposed to leg
and frion-less AC blowing murky from vents;
Or a selfish sun screaming from two surfaces,
sucking liquid from skin--leaving red and thirsty.
Imagine a departure from sameness, particles of sweat
dangling from anxious hairs. It's a sunken highway,
an underpass away from the scenic route.
The swells of swelter like erasers clapping against dusty
chalkboards, forgetting what was written and recalling
only the cough caused by all those particles that collected,
a cork in your throat.
Don't tell me fun and sell me on breezes and beaches,
because you will fail as we all do
as gawky creatures. As we do.
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