flirty

lean in a little.

say it like it's a secret.

make your breath sound like italics.

click your tongue against the roof your mouth

then you'll sound like me.

the typewriter.

naked

lipstick on the teacup steaming bedroom eyes.

glasses resting folded newspaper bookmarked novel.

barefoot toenails pink lotion ringed fingers.

naked on the oriental throw rug.

~


piss fart shit jokes muffled laughter.

worms dirt seaweed sand bottle of beer mosquito bites:

pretty girl-boys don't even look at me.


someday I will be a woman.

in tact

sex object. not afraid of the words.
I've used many objects for the sake of sex.
in fact my body has been pretty disposable-
I don't really mind it being used as
an "it" or a "thing" or a "that"
I've been cataloged and numbered-
like a returned book.
none of this is new to me.


but when my mind becomes saturated
with the secret darkness of manipulation
and it is slimy with half-truths
and unbelievably trite poetics.

forgive me, but this I will not stand for.
use me up and leave me out in heat.

but leave my poor mind, in tact.

why poetry?

the top of today's to do list:
figuring out why I became a poet.

it was wheeling in my head
while i drove to work this morning.

less wheeling rather sitting still-
and waiting.

stoplights, and a sleeping dog
fall down into the street,


my impatience can only let the stoplights lie.


why this medium, i still wonder-

if i need so badly to unburden my insides-
why such feather-light abandon?

if i am so full of conversations, and stories-
why do i stick everything to fly-papery-metaphor?

maybe my life is made of too many breaks-
and little punctuation
maybe my speaking skills
elude less erudite

maybe my skin empty of decoration
is like the paper i tattoo with words.