Author Archives: nantonio


I never feel that hunger from you,
that ragged breath, shaking pulse,
low-lids hunger that says, I want you
NOW.  I don’t understand why
you feel the need to be sweet,
tender, even coy about the foreplay.
We know where this will go.  We know
we’re both down to go down and
I don’t know about you but I want it
NOW.  Kiss me with your teeth
because your lips don’t have the edge.
Get your nails in that caress before
I think you’re getting soft.  Convince me
just a little harder
that you’re starving for my breath
and that you’ll die a little
to taste it.

What Now

I’ve got that heavy knot in my gut

telling me I fucked up, I know it,

everyone knows it, but

I don’t know what I did.

I can’t remember. All I have

is that feeling, something trying

to crawl up from my intestines

and hang from my vocal cords,

choking back a mystery apology.


You’re so good at telling me

everything I’ve done wrong.

Tell me now. Tell me

so I can go nine rounds with myself,

get my slacker ass on the ropes

and go for the KO, slam this

imperfection from my system.


Tell me so I’m not forced to

waterboard my memory

for false confessions and

agonizing half-thoughts

sputtered out between

cracked lips and

another vodka-rocks.


Shuffle my neurons and

find some plausible lie

to explain this writhing,


sickness in my stomach.

I’m sure you’ll be right.



Slide your palm across my throat
and flex your fingers
around my pulse. Press your lifeline
to my windpipe and feel me
swallow against your skin.  It’s good
when my eyes roll back.  I’m in control,
but you don’t have to know
I like this more than I like you.

Really Really

You don’t want the smooth,
ivory complexion, the flawless
body in a Barbie box.

You want me.

You want to taste my pores
and the shower I took last night.
You want to kiss my playground scars
and trace the backs of my knees,
see the correlation between
your fingertips and the sharp degree
of my upward-arching spine. You
want to get tangled knuckle-deep
in my never-combed hair. You want
my bra-less, non-silicone chest
pressed against yours,
lining up the rest.


this isn’t a picture, or plastic,
or anywhere near perfect. This
isn’t jerk-in-the-dark fodder.
This is your wake-up call, your
private show, the beginning of
a really, really good day.

Day 15

Why hello, Sick Day. Long time no see.

A few extra hours of sleep, a wobbly shower,

three rounds of Listerine to make sure my uncle

can’t smell last night on my words

when he picks me up for today’s meeting.


Okay, fine, drinking is bad, but this day,

this break, is a huge relief. If I was

a lesser person, I’d rub that in my uncle’s face.


No, I’ve got something better planned.

I just have to invoke the gods of

convincing lies and self-control:

essentials in functional addiction.

Day 14

You know what? Fuck it. My family

isn’t gonna change, so why should I?

I’m almost two weeks sober and

they still treat me like I’m boozing

into a blackout every night. Well,

if they’re gonna think that anyway,

I might as well earn it.


Jesus fucking Christ,

that’s good. The bite, the burn,

the sharp carbonation when I

wash the Jack down with a bottle

of Sam Adams. I will say,

one advantage of this twelve-day break

is all the money I saved not buying

the cheap shit. This isn’t top shelf,

but it’s better than before. Much better.


If I don’t finish this tonight—fuck,

who am I kidding, of course this

will be done tonight, but, well,

just in case—I’ll hafta find a place

to hide it. Even when I trash it,

I wouldn’t put my uncle above

digging through my recycling

for proof that, yup, I’m as

worthless as they all thought.

Fucking paranoid asswipe.

That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight,

this bender is mine, and I’m not sharing.

Fifteen Hours Later

Sorry this haiku

is late. I was busy with

a weird thing called “sleep.”