Your Shoes, v.2

The sheen of your shoes caught my tired eye.
Up your pant leg, past your coat,
I saw through your wrinkles. Your eyes locked on mine,
and bulbous eyeballs swelled against their glass confines.
I lowered my gaze back to the lacquered leather.
You seemed the type to buy these shiny shoes,
one in the habit of slipping them under the hems
of young girls’ skirts, their panties in polish.
They hinted at the dirty pleasure of picking up
women like me in airport bars. You stared,
with hair slicked back and body stiff,
then dared to slip your toe next to mine.
So excuse my revelry –for some will call me clever–
when I stiletto your toe and scallop your immaculate leather.

 

we are not whores

we are so oppressed i once thought it was funny to think that it wasn’t me i was safe but then there we were crying in a room all women all staring blank faced
like when they were staring at me trying to undress trying to hit on me smack that pussy on the street at 2 a.m.  a woman has no business sitting on those concrete steps and in the dark our minds were running but we were there strength in numbers but then why did we feel so exposed to those boring eyes exposed to the night air the man who came to shake our hands only made it worse trying to be nice when he didn’t realize we are so oppressed he is the enemy we must not touch him make eye contact he is what makes us scared grab our purses clutch to our laps they called from the cars fucked with their eyes greedy with lust and power and privilege and possession what could we do but pretend that it would be over it wasn’t uncomfortable this was normal

 

Your Shoes

The sunset hitting the sheen of your shoes
in such a way caught the corner of my eye.
Up your pant leg, past your coat
and through wrinkles your eyes locked on mine.
Your eyeballs, bulbous and bulging,
swelled against their glass confines.
As I lowered my gaze back to your shoes,
the lacquered leather hinted
at the dirty pleasure of picking up
young women in airport bars.
You seemed the type to buy such shiny shoes,
one in the habit of slipping them under the hem
of young girls’ skirts, their panties in polish.
Hair slicked back and body stiff,
you stared at me all the while,
then dared to slip your toe next to mine.
Now you must excuse my revelry in this,
but I really was quite clever
when I stilettoed your toe
and scalloped your immaculate leather.

 

I…

I spit, I choke,
cough, and sputter.
I don’t know what
to say. The muse
denies her song
to me and keeps
my words at bay.
The clock runs fast;
my mind, too slow.
Sludge through a sieve,
my mind keeps thoughts
not out but in.
But the blank space
demands a scrawl
of text to fill
the void. My voice
is gone, yet still
the cursor blinks:
I I I I

 

Pussyfooting

It’s not you–
it’s me. I love you …
I’m not in love with you.
I’m commitment-phobic.
Let’s just be friends.
It was just sex.
We should see other people
(I’m gay). I need some space,
I’m too busy.
You deserve better.
There’s no more mystery,
no more romance, no more chase.
“Irreconcilable differences.”
I need to do this for myself.
I don’t do long distance.
Let’s have an open relationship.
How about another girl?
I need a break
(up).

 

War

Cut me up, stitch me closed.
Stone me for what I’ve done.
My womb is wound
I wear proudly,
as a warrior in tatters
toeing the line
between fuck and fight.

 

on the street

we are so oppressed once i thought it was funny to think that it wasn’t me i was safe but then there she was crying in a room full of women all staring blank faced like when they were staring at me trying to undress trying to hit on me smack that pussy on the street at 2 a.m.  a woman has no business sitting on those concrete steps but we were there strength in numbers but then why we did we feel so exposed to those boring eyes exposed to the night air the man who came to shake our hands only made it worse trying to be nice when he didn’t realize we are so oppressed he is the enemy we must not touch him make eye contact he is what makes us scared grab our purses clutch to our laps they called from the cars fucked with their eyes greedy with lust and power and privilege and possession what could we do but pretend that it would be over it wasn’t uncomfortable this was normal back to our homes

 

Nostalgia

Do you remember Gary’s high water jeans and Mrs. Fletcher’s bald spot softened by her bouffant bird’s nest hair? Do you remember that stolen kiss on senior prom, the feel of your cheap synthetic waistcoat, that stickiness of youth and arousal and polyester sweat? When you burned your lip waxing your new moustache. When we did in movie theaters what we could not at home. That escape from scholastic prison and that golfcart asshat yelling after us. That feeling that we didn’t belong. That hope.

 

The Swede

I once dated a man from Sweden
who told me that he was vegan.
But when my oven was hot
and I greased up the pot
He couldn’t even put the meat in.

 

The Nightmare

Her
deep purple
insides opened up
to me, cloven and chasm,
no os for the head to stretch.
It slid through the slicked mush
of her violently coursing violet flesh
and lay cloaked in wet crimson mucus of birth.
The umbilical cord was tethered to some place within her,
lost in the darkness of her gaping wound of a cunt.
Pulling for whatever was left behind, I shut
my eyes against the jelly of afterbirth.
I wiped the slime off its face,
but there was no breath.
No sign of life
outside her
womb.