My Lover
If I were to make
out in the stacks would
it be stereotypical?
Would the leather
spine of The Collected Poems
of Emily Dickinson rubbing
against my skin tingle?
Would I even know
he was there—touching me—
or would the books
just be too much?
Just thinking the scenario
sends words up my spine.
Out my mouth, my fingers,
my eyes, my ears—
they go.
Soulless Wonder
You were trying to get to my soul
But you didn’t account for the hole
you would find where it was eaten
out by acid—and beaten
down down deep below the earth.
I tried to save it before it disappeared
But the nonsensical lights seared
into my soul—rendering it diseased
and my longing didn’t matter as it was seized
down down deep below the earth.
Incomplete
Twenty years I have lived on this earth
and those years don’t seem to count yet.
one, two, three
I can say them and add them and multiply them—
I lack and I overflow
Today—a thirsty field
Tomorrow—a clichéd waterfall
A Trip to Market
I went to the market yesterday.
You were there perusing fruit—
or her.
Rolling inside of me this ball
—of anguish and heat and sex—
tried to get out. To projectile
vomit onto you. Dirty—that’s
how you always liked it, right?
Dirty is all we had. Grimy
make-up—sweat and moans.
It wasn’t beautiful.
It wasn’t sweet or innocent
or any other naïve sentiment.
Jesus Is On My Left
Jesus is on my left
the stairs on my right.
The door is held open
with a Gideon Psalm book.
Where do I go?
Inside away from the rain.
But first I need that feeling.
The euphoric feeling
looking up at the sky—
That grey mist filling my lungs.
Legless and lightheaded.
My eyes twitch and I
wonder why I do it.
The fire in my throat—
the pungent smell?
No.
For a second—just a second—
with each angry puff and
stare at the dead branches
I am aware.
Photo by Jonathan Vasquez.