poems and photos
poems: e.t. — photos: Michael Bolsinga
beware the dirty girl, the one who never saves her love;
she’ll rub up against you in doorways, keep you
waiting in the square like the wolves. she’s every
where, beware, in every initial graffitied, in the molecules
of the dead we breathe, in everything — the birds pecking
and bricks sticking, the eyes in the plywood we don’t see
looking out at us: empty the bottle, she’s at your throat/ open
the trapdoor and she’s your ghost, beating a red heart blue —
neat freak
Josh is fastidious. He keeps his socks balled taut in the nightstand,
tucks them there like flaccid cocks, he must — and he probably
chucks them once the soles have gone grey — I’ve never seen it happen,
but I’m familiar with the way he fondles my box of smokes on the table,
positions them in perfect horizontal, and I’ll bet he doesn’t open the newspaper
unless he knows he can fold it exactly back to its original crease.
Even when we speak the universal language in the shower,
in the bedroom-primal, he flinches as he opens the sword-wound of me;
he’s not sure if I’m worth my dirt, my sticky feelings;
he likes to keep it clean — and I’ve noticed —
when I rest my head on his solar plexus to sleep, I try not to be too heavy.
I dream carefully, and only of drowning in his lock box, with chains.
Next Guy Who Walks Thru the Door is the Man of Your Dreams
At the bar we've already put back a few
and we're playing this game "Next Guy
Who Walks Thru the Door is the Man
of Your Dreams" and at first it's slim pickins,
depressing — we fear our wasted blush
and lust, and beauty — then suddenly,
these three dudes swoop in on us, push
snazzy flyers at us, try to get us to come
to their cover band's next gig. The short one
looks like he's wearing a Beatles' wig;
tells me my eyes make men frightened
and I say: I'm tired of men who scare so easy
and so he buys me a beer, swats his cheesy hair
with his hammy hands; it's hot in here,
his tie is loose and useless, more tacky
than ironic. I think of the years it will take
to disintegrate off the planet, and how the tie
will outlast us all. And I feel sorry for his luck
when he asks me : Do I look 35?, because he does,
but, to his credit, the guy tries. He lobs a sad
pick-up line my way, says: Hey, do you know
who Vera Wang is? I've got a bed she designed,
and it's so nice that sometimes,
I just want to lie and lie in it for days…
The guy doesn’t understand my gaze,
says it’s creepy, says he doesn’t get me.
He can’t know that in this moment
I see him open-casket, completely.
Someday he’ll be a crushed mummy.
Someday he’ll be his ribcage of centuries,
gone to dust.
whatta disgrace. you wear
your deathwish all over your face
and poison yourself in public.
and whatta waste of late nite
and headlights, of velvet insides
and eyesight: you cry in the alley at pride,
leave your guts for the sparrows
and skunks of the dumpsters.
you hitch a ride home with the reaper,
and the two of you burn a few together;
he sings love me tender with his head
without eyes, his no-mouth, not smiling
and you are frightening again
when you take your clothes off good-bye,
but he just flicks his cigarette thru your swinging
noose and half-laughs, half-sighs like elvis,
says “honey, can I get a raincheck?”
we are one step from heaven, we can do it, we have our heels and curiosity, our pride —
the gates are rusted and easy to climb, the sun casts shadows in the shape of our names, we can do it.
no need to fear the beating heart, the bleeding start of every month,
no need to speak for the dead-thrumming brain, or what’s in the picture beyond us, we can do it.
we are one step from forever, we can do it, we can leave our shoes of sorrow behind.