Tag Archives: sex

Ice Cream

There are only so many flavors of
sex, the best always the original
recipes, homemade concoctions meant to
combine all your favorite tastes in one
sugary mouthful. The metaphor can
extend to toppings and creaminess, high
and low quality, scoop size, brand and price,
but all I care about is how nice it
makes me feel, life’s little dessert, a sweet
release at the end of a too-long day.
It doesn’t need to be gourmet, so long
as it melts at the right temperature,
and every so often I would love
to be allowed to have it for breakfast.


This poem is going to be a list
of things I think about often and wish
myself and others discussed more freely:
death, God, god, the absence of God, likely
scientific Heaven alternatives,
chaos/randomness, possibilities
involving life being the only real
chaotic factor in the universe,
race, immigration, not giving a fuck
about either, gays, marriage, gay marriage,
being decent to other humans, not
limiting being decent to humans,
socialism, non-capitalism,
sex, comfort, breaking norms, and poetry.

Kitchen Sex

She’d been sautéing the seat of his spatula surreptitiously, boiling beneath the overhang of the bar throughout the party, and as she mashed the keys to get into her hotel room, Chad was overcome with a fleeting moment of sobriety, wondering which way the whiskey would affect him — turning his strainer into a still and unfeeling eggbeater, or an absolute butter knife. The worry washed over him but quickly went away as the door popped open and Katie stirred him inside the room by his tie. She had already mixed his food processor out from his griddle before he even had a chance to get his bearing straight, or figure out where in the room they stood. She coagulated gently on his microwave, slowly combining him towards her with her vegetable crisper as she fried his pot.

“I got it,” he said. He chopped the pan and separated the ladle from its loops, then defrosted her like a jungle cat in heat, toasting his muddler as he melted the path from her can opener, around her bottle opener and up to her spoon, which he baked around to the back of her spatula and began to sauté her pan. She separated a slow and sensuous griddle and as she fried he mixed her food processor against him, her microwave coagulating between his ladle and chopping his swollen butter knife with a slow and slight twist, mashing it around in her smooth vegetable crisper. Chad continued to defrost her spoon, toasting in the strainer that boiled her pot, and coagulated his muddler up to her left can opener. It mixed perfectly in the cupped pan and he separated his bottle opener slowly inward, defrosting the firm and fatty strainer. Katie melted his egg beater, using its strength to boil herself closer to him. She chopped her way down his microwave until she stirred its thick ladle and started combining pans along his microwave where it became a swelling spoon. She burned their weight in her scooped spatula and slowly baked each muddler around her microwave, giving the entire bottle opener a gentle boil.

New Girlfriend

I had a new girlfriend,
with lips full and bright,
but then I lost my job
and she had no insight

on where to find work,
and so even though
she said she’d support me,
I told her to go.

So I got a new girlfriend
with much bigger eyes
but she wanted a choice
for her dinner one night.

I said that was cute, but
I knew what she wanted.
She stormed off and left me
right back where I started.

So I got a new girlfriend,
and things were so great
until we had a baby, which
kind of ruined our dates.

It cost too much cash
to provide for all three,
and I felt I deserved to
keep all my own money

So I got a new girlfriend
who cost me no more
until the end of the night –
just another cheap whore.

And then she made me ill,
so I found me another
who could take care of me
like a boy and his mother.

Then things got all weird
when she felt like I owed her
for helping me heal,
so I found me another

new girlfriend, just like
that first one long ago,
but she still wasn’t perfect
so she still had to go.


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.


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.

Mal Means Bad (in the Latin)

How heavy, thine heart?
I’ll weigh it on a grey scale
and then I guess we’ll talk.
Do you recall the time you told me,
“Mal means ‘bad’ in Latin?”

I still speak in tongues and lips and fingertips,
and I keep stuttering semantics, and I always
let you fall for it, making meaning out
of every fated kiss; and I hoped that it
would never come to this

but it always does its part
I’ll weigh it on a grey scale
and then I guess we’ll talk.
Do you recall the time you told me,
“Mal means ‘bad’ in Latin?”

As always, art is open
to the interpretation
of the patron, and while I may
have lost you in translation,
I was found sleeping soundly
in a sea of constellations where
I drowned beneath the comfortable
blankets of abyss, its never-ending
nothingness reminding me
of all that I had missed.

Though I’m hardly a scientist, it seems
to be my density, and not my mass,
that helps me stay afloat; I guess that I’ve
been lying to myself all along. My heart
has only half the hallowed substance of
the ocean that it swallows (albeit eloquently),
but like drinking too much water, you
can drown your cells and suffocate yourself
until you choke; if that’s a metaphor,

I meant it for my heart
I’ll weigh it on a grey scale
and then I guess we’ll talk.
Do you recall the time you told me,
“Mal means ‘bad’ in Latin?”

My betrayal knows no tragedy, and so
my greatest stories have all spilled
from my own pen, and my authenticity
is never called to question, like the
greatest of the dead white men; it seems
I will not go down in history as the
soft romantic man that I believe myself
to be. Instead, I leave my Juliets for
dead and carry on, never stopping
long enough to wonder if I’m wrong.