a liveI only feel alive in barren lands,Where nothing else can take responsibility for my heartbeat.Hot, sticky fields of tall grass, andTiny wild flowers like toys in a snake playground.Honey hair in braids, andCottage smelling milk.Here I am a virgin forever. But virginity is lonely, As barren lands, snakes, cottages, and pledges of integrity often are.
The Birds and the BeesHot weather has come. Summer has come!And the lovely little lovelies unfasten their sepals.Their petals spring forth in bloom,swelling and flushing with color,engorged with eager expectancy,even smiling at the moon.The bee boys gather, ready to latherin pollen.Rigid with lust,they fly from their husks,their honey-cave prisons,their walls tacked with the sticky sweet memory of last summer's infidelity.They hover and buzz between the blushing flora, examining, imagining, but not conspiring.They sting in solitude;every yellow-black fellow to his own,and to each: all. Perfect gentlemen.There is no need for
I used to be uniqueI used to be unique.Kool-Aid hair dye and all.Boys wrote my name on bathrooms stalls.I swore at teachers. I drank vodka behind the bleachers.I puked at football games on cheerleaders.I had black eyes and cigarette burns and soccer thighs.I used to wear my shirt undone.I used to have fun.Now I own a 6 room house,a 4 door car,a water-dispensing fridge,bell jars.Also, religion,caffeine addiction,magazine subscriptions,diazepam prescriptions,goldfish.900 pairs of shoesPVA gluea self-inflicted curfewsexually transmitted virtueand many, many cats.All this between walls painted in 6 muted shades of deja-
Come HomeIf my ceiling were a two-way mirrorYou would see a tangle of limbs and mouthsof beer, some mine,Atop the shrine you built for me.You would see meSmiling tightlyMoaning politelyUnder a blind black skyAlthough quiet inside, counting sheep, backwards.Over and under and under, but breathing,Hunting and seeking, but mostly just teethingFired by a lake of dizzy barbiturates.Your absence instigates me to recriminate.I set fire to Magnolia State and become a patch of real estate.For every one of those wiry claws there is one set of ecstatic applause.And I live to please.Because at least on my kneesThere are hands in
SpringIt all can happen in the hourBetween the night and day:The dead world is brought to lifeAs spring blisters awake.The Earth inhales, its breath a surgeThrough pores of ragged ice,The claws of winter thaw and loose,Surrender their device.Crystal thrones melt with the bonesOf kingdoms spoiled by doom,Now ivy weaves itself aroundLike dressings on a wound.The sleepy Phlox also ascends,Now feels it has begun,Breaks through the gauzy sheets of snow,Climbs sun-drunk to the sun.Within an instant all the worldIs changed from grey to green.Though soon is red and brown again;As it has always been.And weeping willow
I did spend timeI did spend timethrowing my body over couches,sighing deep from the belly to sad music and murky martinis.I was so heavyI would crash landat the bottom of long-necked bottles withred stained lips.But I have finished that crying now.I'm standing, whole, in heels, somehow.Calloused and glittering.Living.Thing.And I'm feeling rather cat-like down here off the wing.Devils have romanced angels since the beginning of time,charmed them stark raving naked in organized crime,and they've all gone tumbling down, skirts in the air, into forests of red fingernails, lost and impaired.I met some new friends there.And in
more or lessYou will wake up in a purple dress with one stiletto dangling off the bed.The hangover is not quite as guilty without the boxers on the floor. The custom is to wake up earlier than boxer boy or brief, (depending on the club, more or less) and to venture to the kitchen. You don’t mean to wake up so early, but somehow you cannot stop thinking, planning your morning greeting (It gets easier with each visitor), deciding what more y
Coney IslandOn saltine beaches, the leaches wriggle,and the seagulls shriek through gum-stuck beaks.3 whales beached over night.In the feverheat of day, flies pick at their barnacles:An exotic delicacy for the shit-eaters.
Up the Skirt of a MushroomThere is a hunger in my gutsfor things far too back in timeto grasp,gyrate against and say “I love you I love you” over it like a watering canto sunglass-eyed daisies.Instead I will tread(showing lots of leg)in lukewarm fieldsof screw-eyed susansand try to work up an appetite.
DominateI want to be dominatedin a way that feels like emancipation from lonlinesssleazinessand cleanliness.
Pussy LickerYour boy-tongue scoops peanutout of peanut shells, exaggerated,while your eyes dart left and right, looking for a looker to look and, once tongue-charmed, followyou into tonight’s night.
Mississippi DarkA good man is hard to find,like the perfect bitter wine.It’s got to be sweet but it’s got to be dark.It’s got to be rich,trademark,dry and wet, feverishand starkravingred.The boy from Mississippi came to my town.I was driving down a side street when he flagged me down.Boy was he tall.And boy was he dark.“I come to work in the city. There are more opportunities here.”“You think so?”a pause“Who told you that?”He was a farmer.His arms were like a farmer’s.I could picture him sweating and drinking warm water, dreaming of cold white things.A good woman is rar
Green Prada Hemp Side BagWe spend a shameful amount of time scratching and licking behind the ears of models.And whether it tastes good or not is of no importancebecause we don’t even really know what we were expecting.The new usually suffices to amuse usfor a while,or at least until the next time we are not full to the point of exploding in the driveway like my aunt’s fat cat did.In an entirely separate sphere:We spend a lot of time stacking our books with faces we recognize but cant put a name to until they let us unde
EstateThis home is well-built But it is rooflessAnd so all the furniture inside is grumpy.We reupholstered our philosophy, but couldn’t shake the rocking-chair’s resolve.Outside, to the open, un-walled pavement,It looks, And longs for shorter curbs to cradle its cushions.Walls are merely meant to impound when the roof is conspiring against us.
Sonnet ILove, like faith, cannot be conjured at will.It is as accidental as our breath.Asleep, we descend into that red thrill,And it is love that marks our ego's death.Not much else is left of us after this:Your heart beats in his palms, upturned in heat,His tongue inside your mouth tastes wet, wild bliss,And soon his lesions do your blood secrete,So that when you pull apart the pieces,The bed is colder than before you slept.You'll find parts of his flesh in the creasesAnd holes and fissures where his hands had crept.Be careful who you dive into, it's deep.And there is scarce protection while you sleep.
untitled as of yyetWe both know this is for showStiff-lip kisses, business blows.When there is a puncture in this heart-shaped balloonThe screaming, farting air is a warning siren, ignored.You just plug the holesStuff the hole. Stuff my hole.I am hungry in other ways, you know.I'm a terrible hostess, if you haven't noticed.It takes 10 shots to melt this ice.Our love is likeA slow-burning candle. It lasts but there is scarce heat.I want a wick that hisses as it burns.And wax that streams down in hot sticky waves,Forming mud-glob caves.And I want it to smell like beeswax, spooned out of the hive.Our love is likeA sleepy cat. It's f
wholesomeSweet relatives are all light-hearted joke, sandwich smile, politically correct card-game-calmoutside by the refreshments.While inside my flower dress and between my shoulders and under my nails are traces of you and you and only you.Standing here, I think I want to see you and your sun-licked dips in the attic bedroom where the sickle hangs upside down on the wallwhile these silly Philistines trade crossword riddle s
DaveI signed the contract hoping it would make things betterBut you still fuck the same: parallel, paralyzed, and parapraxic. I’m not afraid of what’s inside of you. I’m not afraid of the dirty nasty stinking raunchy filthy fucked up things inside of you.In fact, I’ve swallowed it.All I want is some vertical, sideways, and some downright upside down. Tell me everything.Don’t be nervous,I am just an ocean.
CopyrightSlowly but surely, you took the words right out of my word bubbles.I woke up to find you wearing my hair,my clothes,my face,and the red coral-piece necklace I found deep in the moist jungle. That jungle was my heaven and that coral was my heart. My blood drained.I think I vaguely recall waking up one night covered in tubes and wires. I thought it was a dream. A phase. “She’ll grow out of it”. But you grew into me.Leach.Projector.You are a mirror that sucks at reflections, ghosting me.I feed you.and now I have to repress instead of express, for fear, watch what I let you see of mewatch what
Exit to EdenShe is not the helpless babe crying out at his ankles.She has her own conquests,impassioned and rankled.She built her own spearand knows no fear but memory.The clear-eyed doe does not curtsyNor go on social callsNor struggle under bustiersor other such constraining contraptions.Nor does she bend her hair to fit tight curl mouldsor bother with other such operative ornamentations.Her mane is a wild horse,a gravitational force.She will look you in the eye when you look her in the eye.Her lips are red like her flower.Thick thighs and hips for power.She’ll dance to the music that sounds in the drumming in h
MotherEarth has a Loose VaginaWe should have stayed in the uterusWe could have stayed in the garden.We are certified orphans.Umbilical famine.Now my skyline is lined with sights far from sublime.I was born just in time to see the bloody birth of the apparatusescome kicking, screaming and bending and beaming.Oil-slick fetuses, placentas of nuts and bolts and mercuryout of the bodies of ignorant Eves.For yearsthey’ve grown and evolved.Metal monsters,these cranes,lifting their heads to the mid-summer mid-day sun,grinning their spike-toothed grins.Like railroad tracks to the clouds.Like ladders to kingdom come.Tall erecti
monstroWe have this thick sea-weed stuck in our backteeth.It’s from biting on sunken ship-wrecks and trying to forget the deadby diving to the bottom and changing the sand architecture.Great leviathans swim by us in torrents. Sonar sound sonatas in whale tongue hum and bellow and croon, the creatures tellingthat the sisters in the south were also unable to escape from the sea.So they gather in the deep and wait by their radios,And flounder fish are watching from outside bay windows,While the moon tugs the tide like a sponge in the sky.The day the whales beached my fish jumped out of its bowl.1000 monsters dead on the shore
logic in loveFor some time now, Snakes have slithered in and out of this hole of mine,leaving behind their benign venom:500 million casualties, and not a single mark on the egg-walled castle,Nor the lively blood engine.But your passion is malignant,and one trained fighter could shatter the shell to nest inside.That 1 in a million was also that 1 percent that birth control could not control .And that’s how I know fate is not only painted in the sky,but also in your eyes.And it’s growing in my uterus.
Sta.sh
