Stomp & Stomp & Clap & Stomp

"Well, I said: My god, he don't exist.

And even if he did, he wouldn't like this.

She said she thought of me last night,

while she was reading Lovecraft by the floodlight..."

We will invent new words! Or, if we are tired & lazy,

new meanings! 'Cos the ones we've got mean shit these days.

Let us nail them to the wall with our science & staples

& paintbrushes. You will know the size & shape

of our supermeal(s). See? The word should be underlined red.


We will invent new lives! Things need not be the way they are,

but they do if we want to pay the bills. Let us drink our beer

without a yelling crowd, for just this one time. Could they swallow

the change? Would their throats tighten & resist? We could win

awards for our deeds, or at least a seat at a better table.


We will invent new ways to forget! (That line does not perform,

but the concept will). Won't it be something when they realize

this space is not for beautiful words? Won't it be something

when they realize this is a testament to the things we don't remember?

To the things we are shaking & drowning & aching to ignore?

260 Weeks of Beautiful Sex

There is a tastefully nude picture of a girl being double-teamed
by two men, on a sofa from the early nineties. The top
of her face has been cut off

by the frame, but I wonder: Is it you? Have you been found?

The curvature of her breast is not
unlike yours -- a slight point. As if to stand up and say "Hello!" or "I'm a slow
wave and will pull you out to sea". The coloring

of her skin is from your spectrum. I know the taste: lightly bronzed
from the beach, or sunbathing topless in your backyard
while your parents were at work. She is being handled, but not

unkindly.

One man, made of torso and knees, is between yours --
arching your back as he pulls you around him. The other

man is clutched in your right hand, but that's not what
I'm drawn to. There is a bracelet on your wrist that I bought
for you at a flea market.
Elegant and understated, much like

yourself. And the metal on bare and moist flesh
makes me miss you more than I ever have. And your lips

are puckered and your cheeks are sucked in like
you're being fed. Nourished. And it's all that I can do
to try and stop looking at the picture, but it's the closest

I've been to you in years.

Like when we ate pizza and drank wine and walked through Newport in the snow and I let you wear my coat 'cos you didn't have one (it was warmer earlier in the day) and when we got back inside we kissed almost by accident and you straddled my lap as I took off your shirt and carried you into my bedroom where we made love that night without protection and you cried afterward saying "I'm not sad but I'm not happy either" and "I'm glad we can use each other" and a month after you left I called Laura by your name because my apartment was so very used to your face.

You are the coldest and most far away, and I am to thank
for this. Would two-hundred and sixty weeks of beautiful sex be overkill?
Would you eventually tire of me?

I was never tired of you. Just tired. But every woman I have ever written
is you in new clothing.
Shorter hair
or a darker shade.
The repetitive act is

sad, really. But you look happy
in the picture
with your new friends.

We should all hang out sometime. I mean, if they're cool.


(Click here for the spark.)

Little Epiphanies on the Fire Escape

When we hug, you say
I have a smell to me. And I ask
"what does it remind you of?"

You say, you're not sure.

We should adopt new scents, take
the ones we know and hold and tear
tether from memory. I won't remember

your neck in the glow of a clock

radio. The unnecessary shower. Sleepy
eyes. This is what we need, to purge
our banks. Start clean as if we were born

today, or in a barn yesterday. We tell jokes,

but we know why they're not funny ha-ha.
Funny-sad is our wheelhouse, but I'm partial
to roundhouse. 'Cos it should be about

cycles. Going back to the beginning. To cut off

our noses would be a beautiful thing, still
I can't pick up the boxcutter. 'Cos you've got
to the core of us. Like a tiny bomb,

you beep and flash, nestled in our brains.

The Nurse of Spring

I am sitting on a park bench in the middle of Gotham
and there is a mother with a young daughter walking
by. It's windy, you see, and the young girl's hair
keeps getting in her face. The mother sees this and smiles.

She throws her arms out and her pink shirt gets carried by
the wind. "Let's get blown away!" She yells to her daughter
and they go running down the street, backs pushed by the breeze.

Ian tells me to check out the skirts, so I do. And I did.
A wolf in wolf's clothing. The city is warm and bright,
The Nurse of Spring. It heals us, and this place.

I hear no barking of dogs. Only clanks and trees
swaying. Yes, I said trees. There is a stillness to this
photograph and I think of calling you. So I do. And I did.

Punch-drunk, like the last day of school. We can say whatever
we want to, 'cos we won't remember in the morning. Halfway
through our conversation about dorm life and the importance

of a good thermos, I realize it's not you on the line.
And that's curious to me, but the woman is good
company. So I will sit on the park bench

in the middle of Gotham and tell stories. And maybe
some lies. 'Cos I'm not supposed to be here anyway.

[The smoke has weight]

The smoke has weight. It gets carried
on the wind, like a plea:
Don't go o o o o o o...

But I must. Breath has
no weight. It just floats around our heads
and dissipates. I watch it move

until there's nothing left. We are fighting
for service. A message for girls
in tight black pants with zippers to nowhere.

We don't know who you are, but you look
like a girl we used to love. A girl
who likens herself to Temperance Brennan,

'cos she knows fiction is more real than real.
We don't know why she comes
to us, five drinks in, but she does.

And she will. Until a nerve is struck and pulled,
extracted from our strained throats.
The smoke will lead her to us.

Greetings from Miami

I am not one for shorts. My legs are too thin for my body type. It shouldn't matter, I am deadly handsome with a two-thousand dollar smile. (Bares them fangs.)

But Miami is shorts-weather, and accepts no substitutes. Short pants? She says "nay". Capris? Those are the same.

She was good to me once, Miami was. It was a long trip through a small state and I found her again, tanning and sipping pink chemicals through a straw. And she sat up to greet me. To give me a mission. A dare: I bet you won't.

Miami likes scary movies before bed, but only the first eight minutes. She knows what happens when the lights go out. And then what happens when the sun comes up.

I brush my teeth with toothpaste on a middle finger and greet her "good day" with lips and tongue: I would have kissed you anyway.

Monday Is For Lovers

Trees like skeleton bones
and eyes of black tar.
Spooky, no?

The Februarians

And when the time is right, you'll tell him?
And if he's in need, you'll hold him?

Make a promise now, and I will make you up

a bed. 'Cos that's all we've really got at the end of the day --
our word(s).
I will hold you to yours. I will hold you, too.

A mouth is no place for secrets, like a blasphemer
under a church pew. We know exactly where to look

when we want vindication. We are the Village Lynch Mob,
so open up and give us your babies. Babies?
They don't stay little forever, best to nip

the problem in the womb. Purity is a word, yes --
but it means little these days. It means naivety and

forgiveness. We have no need for such things, 'cos

we like the Dark and the Wrong. And the Mistake?
Don't even get us started. We've got one foot in the bag
and are going for the gold. So spill your cranberry

juice down my collar, stick your thumbs in my jeans
and pull me close. Belt me with a buckle and suck

my mouth dry. It's all about subterfuge, and knee socks

make the perfect disguise when the rest is bare
and shaking with nerves. Shaking with longing
and regret and every other desperate syllable

we can think of. And we will not be nervous,
we will be like conquistadors. Or comfortadors.

I listened to your album seven times last night.