Sometimes when I’m lonely
I pretend that you died in a car crash.
I picture your chest peeled over and splayed out
across the dash of my gorgeous black sports car
mouth open and full of blood
ribcage ravaged by the steering column
right at that exact place where I used to lay my face
and listen to the sound of your little human heart.
I feel the room temperature change as the gore goes cold,
as your bright red runs dark brown.
Sometimes when I’m exhausted
I daydream of other worlds,
avoiding eye contact with unconsciousness
and sleep gets whored out
again and again by these visions of Death.
At the sun-setting beach with a cooler of beer
the evening went long.
We made out straddling a log on the edge of the treeline.
I decided that he could do whatever he wanted to me
and later he came at least three times and
I probably didn’t sleep at all,
I’m not sure.
We had cold coffee on the back porch in the morning
in the pauses between his words I took sips.
I wanted sugar in my coffee.
He wanted to see me again.
Neither of us got what we wanted.
I heard some ex girl came back to town.
Driving back home I was smiling.
Because frankly, it was a good night.
Every song on the radio was a fucking hit.
I could feel hot blood in my skin,
the firm steering wheel under my palms.
The landscape ahead was insanely clear,
I have never seen the future so early.
Fuck your bored and boring New American Buddhism.
Every single thing that is,
That’s how I get my piece anyway.
He said, “I get it.
You just want to be dominated
He grabbed me by my hair and shoved me backwards on the bed,
“I’ll make you shut the fuck up woman.”
We kissed for sixty seconds.
Threeway on a Sunday
I was sitting at some terrible bar with the gypsy girl
(she was stopping through town again
and I was bored)
when the conversation meandered to cock.
You haven’t fucked the drummer? Girl,
you have to, he gives great head and his cock is amazing,
I can make him come right now, I’ll call him.”
I protested a little, not much.
30 minutes later the three of us were on my bed.
The hot gypsy girl got naked fast
(her body was the only thing she was sure of)
and we passed a bottle of warm white wine.
I was drunk.
The boy and I took turns
trying to get the gypsy girl off
but it was useless
she was barely paying attention and she
called some guy, then called a taxi.
Which was great because really
I was just trying to get her off to be polite.
After she left the room
I ran my hand down the boy’s ribs,
tracing a tattoo I wouldn’t remember.
Love Runs Out
How queer my dear,
how brief our love must be.
Touching your face and everything stops,
fingering the gaps
between each of your words,
with great intent while you ask me to bend over.
An hour in bed with you and an hour on the street
are not the same hour at all.
My entirety rests on your chest.
But I’ll be dead soon and so will you.
And your skin smile hair will also all be dead.
And when I say I Love You Forever we both know
The futile pressing of you into me runs out.
It’s queer my dear,
how soon we will both be dead.
Every insane thing that is
the most important and means everything right now,
this sex and this work and this relentless arc,
which is frantic and deep and so full of love,
will only be air hanging in an empty jar.