Monday, April 28, 2014

Post War

My body is a post-war wasteland
there are mines that explode when you run
your fingers over my skin
and there are graves of burning men and women
planted in half-moon craters across my arms
and on Sundays when I wash my hair
my knees are suddenly wet with red
John Frieda said the dye wouldn't fade for two weeks
but really, who could ever predict
sudden death
or stop gunshot bleeding
John Frieda didn't know shit
nor did any John ever who said
"It'll be okay"
You asked me why I don't talk to you anymore
I won't tell you
because telling means talking and talking
is not something that dead people do.
I always wondered why I could never
bear to hear you sing
and then I realized, yesterday
that no one ever appreciated
sing-song cruelty
Who ever wanted music
in a gas chamber?

Friday, April 25, 2014

The Love Electric

I run the barbell of my tongue ring against my teeth
as a jailer would his baton on prison bars
and intimidate my voice into
giving up your name.
I demand the right to call my attorney!
You cannot make me
I am going to hold on
to your name as though
it is prayer
to speak your name is to take it in vain
to write it down is to document it
there is a structural deficit in my medium of love.
I cannot speak of it nor write of it
there is an electrical transmission
perhaps I can email you my love with no attachments
Are you sure you want to send? There is no attachment included in this email.
Can you read between the lines? There are no lines to speak of

I fell asleep with shreds of paper in my teeth
fortune cookie futures 
all with your name on it.
I chew on remnants of hearts and souls and soul mates
and all the achy-tooth promises that you made 
when you were seventeen.
there's a space between 
what i say and what i mean to say
and no words to fill it. 
Maybe it's an electrical transmission
I'll leave it blank.
You can read between the lines. 


You are a bad writer.
You can't articulate, honey. I can see the words lodge in your throat. Every time you say you love me, your adam's apple swells
how dare you steal my apple adam. What would Satan say?
It's my apple. You try to talk around me and mine. Your words aren't sharp enough, nor acidic enough nor strong enough
to dislodge my apple. Damned to an eternity of suffering...yet here you wear my sin in your throat.
You told me you cannot cry
because your throat closes up and strangles your tears
what if I told you that my conscience lives serpentinely
and tightens its coils around your neck
every time I swell with guilt.