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.