writing poetry

they say
to write poetry
you must drink
or fall in love
of which
i can do
neither

droplet pt 2

a knife glides across the flesh
of an apple-- i halve it and watch
it open in front of me, so tender
and exposed. juice traces the
curves and is absorbed by
the old oak table beneath it.
i take a bite and it's sweet on my tongue-
i hold it in my mouth for awhile before i
swallow. cupped in my hand, i let the apple
brown a little before taking another bite-- we
depreciate together. i halve it once more
and drop a slice on the ground. it collects dust
on the edge so i throw it in the trash, keep the rest
for later.

candaulism

the most famous of those was dali. he would paint his woman naked and put it up for everyone to see. if you had known he was most likely masturbating in the bathroom around the corner about it, you might have interpreted it differently, but chances are people knew what was going on and enjoyed it even more-so. as is the way we work, you know.

the man who it is dubbed for, got caught letting a servant man stare at his woman through the crack of the door. when she found him, she demanded that he kill either himself or her husband. you think he would kill himself, being the servant and all, but instead he killed the king and usurped the throne. best rags to riches story i know.


sometimes i don't wear underwear to work and sit in a high chair and spread my legs just slightly to let people peek in accidentally. make them think it's their fault, and they're the perverts. one day i would want a man to tell me to do these things, or not do these things, but until then it looks like i'm constantly stuck in a room of voyeurs who don't even know.

kiss me

kiss me just like a fish hook under the teeth
through the gum and keep me strung along, addicted
to your tongue.

kiss me just like a lie

kiss me just like a turtle on it's back

kiss me just like a snail, salted & dying,
drying on the driveway

kiss me just like a broken table with a book underneath to make it stop shaking.
make me stop shaking.

kiss me just like a brown paper bag empty and crumpled on a bus seat, smelling slightly of beer and cigarettes

kiss me just like a birds nest

kiss me just like you would my right breast

kiss me just like fingernails against a chalkboard

kiss me just like the engine of a ford truck roaring down the freeway

kiss me just like the paths of eyes
kiss me on my thighs

lather, rinse, repeat

the long e

a letter
folded into thirds
not mailed but kept
delivered
later, hand to hand

a confession
writ in cursive
finger oil smudges the loops,
vowels dropped onto concrete

a secret
identity
torn between the pages, signed
this time by gabby
not gabe

prison

fingers pressed against glass, dragged
around the picket white fence outside
an oil smudge art piece

too much time to think,
muddled ideas tremble from lips and
fall face first onto concrete

in prison, there's no difference between
close and closer when looking through bars--
no difference between life
and forever