You And Me And The Devil Makes Three (aka I Want To Hold You In Contempt)

Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping  into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans.

Snug, familiar, and warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays.
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.

Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.

I am undone again.

Get Over Your Self(ie)

Did you think of us as intimate? Do you think yourself as special?
Don’t you know my skin is Catholic, letting every-body-in?
No, my mild Molotov, you are not the one who got away.
You’ve not the eyes or touch worth mentioning
and idolized in poetry. I’m sorry, my sweet minutiae,
but yours is not a love requiring sonnets
or sorry glances at the moon.

What you are is good morning on a Monday at work,
a bowl of mints on an office desk,
an umbrella for if it rains because it’s cloudy
(but then it doesn’t.) You are a nickel I found in my back pocket
when I was 10 cents short, a pencil in arms reach
when I’m on the phone and need a pen.
You are the first 15 seconds of every video on YouTube,
losing a set of keys when somebody else is home,
footprints on the beach near a rising tide,
a song I heard and I think I kind of liked
but will never download. You are the vague space
between laying in bed and falling asleep,
the 4th, 7th, and 13th  time I had sex.

Necessary but pointless, momentous but irrelevant;
you will not be remembered nor entirely forgotten.
No song or place or prose will resign me with nostalgia,
because you are not a love requiring sonnets.

You are just another thing that happened.

It Takes Two To Tango (So If The Sex Was Lousy That’s Also Your Fault)

I was born once but have died many times, a suicides cacophony,
dressed down to the 9’s in dismantled almost and
New York is covered in my gravestones.
145th and Park, drowned in taco flavored kisses
and horchata. Time of death: when her lips met mine (1:59AM)

Lost count how many lives lost down Amsterdam,
Jakes dilemma like mine: Do or Don’t,
a simple answer when you’re young
Yet it all went south with Chris on West 4th,
stuttering on words said, choking on courage
and the empty soliloquy. .

Singing up Lexington, laughter loud in our lungs,
wild and bewildering, the way love should.
He had on ripped jeans and the fountains were pink,
moonlight dazzling, surrounding me, pale eyes
drenched in passion. Kisses hidden by the scaffolding,
59th Street and Madison, rusted love to stir the stale blood.

A deathless death in inches, physical symphony
and reawakening from the tomb of myself.
The bedroom is covered in rebirth, amniotic evidence,
Past Dyre Avenue where God waits in open arms,
and heaven can come twice, with patience.