Four Poems (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)
Fucking Banksy's Wife
I did a line with your wife and
we went down. When we came back up no
one was home.
I called my sister, but she
hadn't seen me. "Mom is well."
She was cross or crass or some in
between. Your wife and I sat on the couch
and watched breaking news on whistle blowers. It made me erect.
I remember her nails were black
and she smelled of lavender or vanilla, I could never
tell the difference.
On Being the Best Dressed Person on the City Bus
I have them written down, the things I want to say to you. She suggested I do as much. A letter, but who writes letters these days? Besides, I have no address to send it to, nor any real idea how much postage is. They’re written on index cards, and they’re tucked in my coat pocket. We bought this coat together: Macy’s? It was a store in the mall. You wore it around the house sometimes. I wore it to work so I could smell you. It now smells of me. There’s a ding but it’s not me. Not yet. Soon, but I’m keeping my hands in my pockets.
New Shades of Hometown Blues
The specter of this town is on her walls.
On her children's faces;
nestled in their breasts.
It won their hearts and minds while breaking mine.
Go with us here, they say. But first they choose sides.
I lost them all near the same tracks that gave birth to this city.
I love you, I love you, I love you, now let's talk about him.
It's a ghost story, I tell her,
but she already knows.
A Place for Strangers
When you asked me if I knew
him, what was there to know?
I saw him sail a kite somewhere
in a distant reverie. Perhaps
we rode bikes, perhaps we
have similar toes. I treat the past as
though it were a dream.
The haze is the same.
--Do you feel as though you are waking?
I was never the one asleep
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Two Poems (November 20, 2010. Issue 22.)
What We Say When We Say Nothing
I dated a girl because someone said I wouldn't find better hands. We would lie on the couch and smoke cigarettes. We would lie in bed and smoke pot. She would speak in French, and I never knew what she meant when she spoke English. For a year we lived together in the same apartment. She would send me mail. Postcards from the Albertsons down the road. It was always a list of groceries we needed. The last postcard I got was a list of things she needed. I was not on that list. Last night I lied in bed and tried to roll a joint. She did have nice hands.
Playing the Roles We Learned in Modern Literature
There's a place I go on cold nights, where a window is left open. A temperate breeze
sneaks in. The bed is disheveled, and
I'm wide awake.
Your leg lay
languid across my body.
I admire your black toenails from the faint glow of the moon.
Cicadas sing outside and
I'm focused on your middle toe. It's straight and proud and longer
than the rest. It makes no excuses and no
apologies.
Your breath is rhythmic on my neck. You're asleep.
The wind catches
the palms outside. They sound like paper. I
follow your leg up to your knee.
Up to your thigh.
I rest my hand
here.
I stay
here.
The cicadas
fade in
and out.
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Two Poems (June 20, 2010. Issue 18.)
Movie-Goer
I sat alone in the back of the theater
convinced that the sparse other movie-goers
thought I was masturbating.
I wished you were there,
but that only made me want to masturbate.
There was a sad Belgian woman on screen
lamenting her grandmother.
“Grand-mére, je suis seul.”
A head turned around
and I made some movements with my hand.
Let the Machine Get It
There was an ad in Craigslist for a doorman at the new hotel by your house. I’ll need to buy a bow tie. You’ll have to help me find one. The common consensus is that it should be black. Do you know how to tie a bow tie? Is it very different from a regular, down-the-chest tie? Do I wear the bow tie, or the stripped gray and black tie I wore to Carey’s wedding, at the interview?
These are questions I’d ask you
if you would pick up the phone.
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