Monthly Archives: January 2011

Love on Skates

Apparently WordPress wanted to be a jerk and not let me format this correctly. Oh well.


With thick, pumping
thighs, she slices
through the still
and silent air,
leaning into well-
developed curves
and tracing rings
around her tracks.
The speed makes her
round red face go
flush. She feels a

flutter as she inhales,
her trembling
breathe
echoing in that
hushed arena as
she moves her body

down,

down to keep it
up and let her womanly
shape control. She throws her
hair back and lets her
legs
kick
harder,
building
 
past
blocks
 
of
momentum
 
into
a liberating glide.
But the collision’s
unavoidable, and even
before it
comes
she can feel herself
 
explode beneath
the barrier, bursting
 
under her
 
protection.
She bites down on
 
her swollen lip,
a bulbous, bloody
 
burgundy, engorged
with heat and sweat,
 
then wraps herself
around the
 
lap. Now
soaring well past
 
gravity’s grasp,
barely clinging
 
to the ground
and trying
 
not to

fall.

Trepverter

 

Of all the witty things I could have said,

There are some things I really should have said.

 

Retreating from an argument I’ve lost,

I kick myself for what I could have said.

 

It’s not “medicinal” if you smoke it to be less of an asshole.

That’s probably something that I should have said.

 

Sometimes I keep myself awake all night

playing out these things I could have said.

When I Dialed, Wishing Well

I found the fountain of youth
in a phonecall,
her voice a stream

of giggles leading me
to flowing topics,
crisp sparkling words

running still, deep,
washing dusts of history
free, my map adrift

in the rush
of her sweet-water breeze,
lost to the ages there,

at the feet
of eternity no need
for retracing

steps, as,trickling
in my ear
simple purities

pour forth, gentle
as a spring snowfall,
each draught cool

as fresh shade,
her sentiment I call
my everglade.

Uglosexuals

I am going to start my own church.

I can no longer sit idly by while

ugly people get married in such a

“holy place.” It should be against the law.

 

I will also run for political

office, and put an end to this nonsense.

The heathens on Capitol Hill have no

right to let unattractiveness persist.

 

This is a danger to us all; no one

wants their child exposed to such filth.

 

Ugliness is a disease, though it can

be cured with faith, patience, and counseling.

The afflicted may be beautiful once more,

and rejoin we whom God has not tested.

The Winning Ticket

Sharon kept her sunglasses on and paused to straighten out her dress, a white knee-high covered in blue and yellow flowers that she had originally bought to wear to church one Easter Sunday. Walter, her husband, told her it was too short. When she protested that it fell below the knees, he told her again, and made her buy a brand new dress that better matched the swollen bruise on her upper left cheek. Shaking the memory from her body, she clutched her purse tightly to her chest and walked through the metal detector. “Follow me,” a guard said, and she did, walking as slowly as possible with her shoulders straight and her stiletto shoes stepping one foot in front of the other, trying hard to maintain the appearance of confidence and delay her destination for as long as possible.

As they entered the Visitor’s Center, Sharon turned her nose up towards the ceiling and pretended not to notice the man on the other side of the glass holding the receiver up to his ear and forcing a smile through his crooked, toothy snarl. The skin on his face looked more worn and leathery than usual, the pockets in his flesh accentuated by the accumulated prison grime.

Sharon thanked her escort as she took a seat across the man. The prison guard stepped back, but remained in the room, hovering nearby. The man across from her began screaming into his end of the receiver before she even had a chance to pick hers up. She waited until he was finished, and then picked up her own receiver with clammy, sweaty hands, and slowly pressed it to the side of her face.

“Good afternoon, Walter,” she said. Her face read no emotion.

“Fuck you, you fucking whore. I saw the fucking news. Where’s my god damn money?”

Sharon took a deep breathe and tried to steady the shaking hand that held the phone receiver. She spoke after a pause: “I just came by — I thought I should tell you in person, that I’m not giving you anything. I’m not splitting the money.”

“Wrong again, ya stupid bitch,” he growled, leaning into the glass that divided them. “You think I don’t got time to read in here? I’m still your husband, means I’m still entitled to half. Besides — it was my numbers that won. You still play ’em, and it’s my fuckin’ numbers that hit.”

Pause. He waited for Sharon to respond, but she said nothing.

“Maybe if ya hadn’t been in such a rush to throw yer man in jail, you woulda thought’a that first. Even if we got a divorce now — and baby, I’m okay with that, just so you know — I’d still get half a’what you got. And what’s half of, uh…”

“Forty-five million.” Sharon swallowed hard and placed her free hand in her lap so that he couldn’t see it shaking. “Forty-five million dollars.”

Sharon took another breathe, dropped the telephone receiver, and for the first time in her life, she stood up and walked away. She was certain that Walter was screaming at her through the phone, telling her what a useless whore she was, and detailing all of the terrible things he was going to and all the drugs he would buy with her money.

But this time, she didn’t have to hear him.

Sarah Palin Declines Her Party’s Nomination (as written by Stephen Sondheim).

Thank you all for coming to this conference for the press.
You’ll excuse if my demeanor might be something of a mess.
Because you’ve taken all this time out from your houses and your spouses
And I see you looking spiffy in your suits and your blouses.
And I get to feeling badly ’cause I know what it’s like.
‘Cause after all I am like you, just a mother and a wife.
Which is why I’ve called this conference at this time and this date,
As I need to tell you all why I must now refudiate
My original intentions for this upcoming election
After really tons of thought and a bunch of introspection.

So thank you all – but I’m not gonna run.
It’s been a ball – and a whole lot of fun.
But no Town Hall – ’cause I’m not gonna run in ’12.

I know you’re probably thinking what a pity and a shame!
‘Cause I ‘m sure that you’ve all come to trust upon the Palin name.
But I need to spend some time with Bristol, Piper, Track and Trig,
And worry less about the lipstick and some more about the pig.
So while I won’t be in the White House you’ll still see me all the time
Because a Sarah-less existence would be really such a crime.
Rest assured I’ve got so many things I’ve set within my sights
(they’re actually surveyor’s marks for anyone who’s in the right).
Like dealing with this “blood libel” kerfuffle ballyhoo.
Who knew it had to do with the Jews? Did YOU?

Hold your fire! ‘Cause I’m not gonna run.
I won’t retire – I’m just reloading my gun.
Cue the choir – I’m just not gonna run in ’12.

All The Art I Need

A man in throes
Of passion knows
No pen or paper,
More content
To pay the rent,

Dig endless holes,
Stack bricks atop
Bricks, break his back
And hold a smile
Where paychecks spiral
From pockets single file

Like stars in twilight sky,
More  than man can count, too
Tiny to matter, enough
To fill the eye
For ten lifetimes,
These are the days
Of happiness,

Indistinguishable
From each other
Until one day,
As you lay on your back,
The black drapes of night
Drawn in and painted over
With those countless stars,

A hand holds yours
And the warmth you share
Becomes the only real thing
In this speckled quiet dream
And each day before you
Like each star above you
And the hand-warmth
Between you all
Become
One.