androgynous

i'm listening
to
the replacements.

i'm listening
to
androgynous.

its a beautiful
thought.

its a beautiful
love.

i'm thinking deep.
i'm thinking lost.

and it seems so large.
so everywhere.

and it seems so right.
so nowhere.

fast.

i'm thinking love.
i'm thinking romance.

and it seems so far.
so somewhere.

and it seems so long.
so ago.

slower.

thats how we do it.

in here.
in wait.
in me.

Jane the Ecdysiast's Everywhere Days

Jane dances.
In silver heels, high as two phonebooks.
Janet sashays.
Blows winks and kisses, dripping bargain-bin red lipstick.

Jane disrobes.
First her bra and then the rest.
Jane blushes.
Underneath ten years of makeup and rewashed hope.

Ten absent men
swallow cheap beer and
forget about their wives, girlfriends.
their whomevers.

Ten, worked men clutching oily
dollars, gnarled, angry dollars, between
calloused, tar-stained fingers.

Glug, Glug,
another bra hits the ground.

Jane once had a clever idea for the name
of a lipstick color. She'll never remember it now.
and blushes every time she tries.

Another ten men.
hot stage lights reflect off flop sweat.

Glug Glug.
thrill-less, pill-less and broke.
Nowhere else to go.

Jane collects dollars from the stage.
Jane, she uses the name Stormy, pushes
another drunk hand away from her
too naked legs.

Where is the bouncer when you need him.
Out back with Jade. That's why she gets
the good shifts.

What was the name of that lipstick color,
she begs herself, sweating through
the powder on her face. mascara starting
to run.

Another grunt from the front.
An old man with a white beard
has fallen asleep.

Jane sleeps around, drunk.
You lose your self respect after a while.
Not because of the job, because of the men.
Maybe It was stolen a long time ago.
Maybe too long and so far gone
it wont ever come back.

The front door opens and the stage
drowns in real light, daylight,
and brows crinkle and angry men slur
hate from sulky, puffy faces. and another
groping fatso stumbles to the stage.

That's how it goes.
That's a real job.

That's the suffer the kids
won't ever know about.

That's Jane the Ecdysiast's Everywhere Days.

bruises

you asked me one
last time before
the door closed.

it felt
like finishing
the last
word
on the last page
of that really
great novel.

a smile
reserved
for the friend who
tries to cheer
you up at a funeral.

that night:
next year's you listened
to
my sorries
at a pub
that echoed
slide guitar and misery
from the jukebox.

we slo-danced
until i was dizzy with three z's.

i was still
thinking about
answering your
question.

you were ten miles
from never again.

and i was
ready for
one more round.

bedtime stories

smack! pop!
another opened beercan
ends the quiet.

i'm alone
in
bed, waiting.

the house is black
except for you
and
the lazy boy and a busted TV.

wide awake.
eyes pinched shut.

i never told you this, but i can't
sleep until
you're
next to me:

breathing your
unbrushed liquor
breath
around the room,
like an overworked engine.

it's a bit silly.
i agree.
and
i really would like to know
why i stay, but i do.

and
its been 2 months since
you've kissed me goodnight,
a year, since
we last slept together,
and forever
since i remember thinking:
i love you.

but you're still
my
bedtime
story.

me in a bottle

I never gave up.
thats just something we say
after we've already given up,
or at
the very least
thought long and hard about
giving up.

so, i lied.
i did giveup.
i just never told anyone.
i went on
pretending
like always
pretending
pretending.
to be your everything.
your pills
your hugs
your eyes
your mouth
your
libido
your backbone
and nerve

i'm not afraid to be wrong.
i'm afraid that i am.
and what that means.