a dream ( for Mandelbrot )

you climb onto me,
and suck me into a rich
kiss, deep and dirty.

when your hands clench my
thigh, white prints are left behind
on skin ruddy with

burst capillaries.
it forms a map -- "i can read
my future in your

leg," you whisper
when you finally release your
hands. i feel relieved.

passive aggression

when you interrupt

me, dear, it makes me feel like

i'm unimportant.

now you are in the

dog house and know it, so you

kindly offered

to pick up toilet

paper and poop bags. even

Steven ? i think not.

nothing's for nothing.

sometimes when you use
a cat as a heating pad
you think "TERRIFIC !

A FREE HEATING PAD !"
then you remember all the
money you have poured

into organic
kibble and sustainable
kitty litter, and

so you shake your head,
reminded that there's no such
thing as a free lunch.

lola goes for a swim

then she shakes herself

she's heavy -- big for her age

and her thickness sways

in perfect phase shifts,

periodic and fluid

nose-to-tail movement.

the sun is shining

as each water droplet is

released on its

magical journey;

individually they

are tiny crystals

but together they

form a rainbow spray, soaking

foreign onlookers

tickle, tickle

pickle,
sickle,
george dickel,
costs a nickel,
tickle tickle,
she's so fickle

chortle,
chuckle,
honey suckle,
brass knuckles and belt buckles,
huckleberry,
cranky cuckold,
tuck old tissues in my sleeves

an afternoon by the East River

"the water's been clean
lately, surprisingly so."
he's in it, knee-deep.

i watch from a safe
distance; squinting, skeptical.
his feet plunge into

muddy sand, making
sucking sounds each time he lifts
them, breaking the seal.

a boat's wake rushes
ashore and my sissy dog
skuttles away quick.

i manage to pick my
feet up (onto my rock-seat)
just in time, thank god.

"what just floated by ?"
"hm. a condom or dead fish ?"
"don't give it much thought."

we share nervous laughs
as i brush myself off and
slip my shoes back on.

belly.

no recollection
of yesterdays lunch save for
the pile of bacon.

precision vs. accuracy

funny that while we
have no way of knowing when
it is precisely

12 noon (on-the-nose !)
a stopped watch will always be
correct twice a day.

cadence

bjork's on NPR
talkin bout weird shit and stuff;
that fucking siren.

my friend, the florist

her eyes are steel blue,
not robin's egg, baby, or
Carolina blue

but frosty and crisp,
like a gin martini
just made and resting.

she carries with her
a thick musk of verbena,
moss, and lavender,

so that long after
our talks of men, dogs, food, wine,
sex, sins & sinners

her scent clings to me,
a delayed good-bye embrace,
so tender and sweet.

sulking.

when you're a teacher
the month of august feels like
sunday -- quick, dreadful.

streptococcus

a barnacle grows
on my right tonsil.
it tastes of tin cans,

9 volt batteries,
or like clenching a hanger
between your teeth so

you can easily
button the buttons on a
freshly pressed men's shirt.

a great day to be at sea

did you know that i
have always wanted to be
a tugboat captain ?

ahoy, dream ! i see
you in the mist ! we would guide
all the big boats through

narrow passages,
under bridges and whatnot.
i'd learn all the maps,

bearings, and knots (wait --
are there knots on a tugboat ?)
regardless, it'd be

a snap for me since
i'm a math whiz, and pretty
good with my hands, too.

it would be cold as
a witch's tit, rainy, and
way before sunrise,

but i wouldn't care, cause
i'm a tough nut and a damn
good tugboat captain.

a bird in the hand

elbow deep in my
cunt, the doc asks 'why don't you
wanna get married ?'

possibly the last
words i wanted to hear save
for 'scoot down. further.'

it's the little things.

mopped the floor and had
a listen to richard marx.
feeling productive.

a dirty deed.

made a young girl cry
last night here at my very
own kitchen table.

the make up stained tears
creeping down her cheeks seem so
far away now, as

morning sunshine seeps
through my bedroom window and
my head gently throbs.

"ma'am, your feet are enticing me"

dusk : man with jumbo
shoes rearranges items
in his shopping cart.

good news !

"damn girl. that man is
a breath away from divorce."
"hm. two more shots, please ?"

oh wait, i remember.

trying to wrap my
head around how exactly
my ass got so big

darren wants a drama-free relationship

shot gunning it to
some fucked up under-water
out-of-space music,

gorgeous pinot, and
a zagnut. Michael Keaton
raises an eyebrow.

today it is beautiful outside

mr grumpy sleeps,
nose a-whistlin, while a cat
tunnels through the tents

made by our bodies
and the duvet. cookie crumbs
gather in the crook

of my collar bone;
i lick a finger to pick
them up, and bask in

the radiance of
afternoon sun made better
by such laziness.

at 4:25 it's raining

i trip out of bed
a star nosed mole, feeling the
top of his bureau

for collar stays, keys,
a money clip, or cuff links;
for if he left them

then he shall come back
to tuck me in and touch my
cheek, "shh little bird."

good morning.

low hanging clouds snag
on buildings, billboards, bridges;
tug boat goes toot toot.

"... and now breathe in ."

my doctor's a Good
Man. i audition thank-you's
as he draws my blood.

Codependence.

"You seem sicker than
I, dear," you say. "You're stronger
than I, dear," he smiles.

"Should we nap, my dear?"
"Yes, dear, let's nap," you reply.
"Should we drug up, dear ?"

"Yes, dear, let's drug up."
"Dear, did you leave this dirty
snot-rag on the floor ?"

"Yes, dear. Sorry, dear."
"My dear ? Shall we nap some more ?"
"Brilliant idea, dear."

the magician

from the hat he pulls
not a bunny but a hare
all limbs claws and teeth;

the deceiver grins
a cruel yellow grin and
celebrates his trick.

The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get

my cat always says,
"if a rim job's not cuddles,
i don't know what is."

makin bacon

i listen wide-eyed
as Max regales the saga
of Willie Pickton,

a pig farmer come
serial killer with a
taste for loose ladies.

not just sick. FUCKIN SICK.

(or, that's why they pay me The Big Bucks)

mister silverstein
lied when he gently explained
that a toothed snail

would bite your finger
should it creep into your nose.
the truth is this, dear:

consider it broke,
your filthy finger, that is.
because i'm god damn

sick of your god damn
habit making me puke up
my god damn breakfast.

umbrella, umbrella, 5 $, 5 $.

pray for your fallen
comrades, crumpled in the road;
wet, useless, garbage.

the remedy

sometimes you trudge to
the train and walk a bunch of
blocks all by yourself

shuffle, really, cause
you're feeling pretty lonesome
and it's cold enough

to make your fingers
clench even though they're plunged deep
into your pockets,

then you duck through a
new door to dine with new friends
and realize that the

only thing you needed
was some kindness and maybe
a well-made Pimm's cup.

'all of the pageantry, none of the guilt'

when you're gone, this place,
it's a fucking church. silent
and slightly scary.

piles of socks, folded
like hands in prayer, candles
lit in observance

of our nightly vice,
surfaces immaculate,
scoured, fit for gods.

alone, it's empty
pageantry, in need of our
choirs of laughter

ringing with blood and
wine and noise to flush some life
into this stillness.

"I love this lamp, why?"

Mr. Mister sits
in silhouette beside his
most favorite lamp;

his back is turned and
I watch him lovingly
as he sips his wine.

flying solo tonight

sunset accented
by a tequila sunrise
pathetic, blissful.

today this one's for Laura.

today my sister

is sad. i want to cover

her tight with myself,

a warm blanket of

sister, new skin, a sort of womb,

loving and alive,

a greenhouse so that

her wild, intoxicating

flowers can grow tall.