A real man doesn’t date sluts.
A real man doesn’t call women sluts.
There are certain words you cannot say
to my 77 year old grandmother
driving slowly in the left hand lane
how dare you.
Do you say them to the woman in a tank top
on a hot summer day?
They say that to your sister, you know.
Hot damn girl you’re fine.
You’re fine. Fine
I’ll walk a different way today
and the next time
maybe you won’t say anything or
I won’t listen. But I’ll hear
what the news reporters say
about Turner and Miss Stanford.
In Chicago he had it coming, but
she had it coming holds up in court.
What was she wearing?
Was there alcohol involved?
How long is his sentence?
Catcallers don’t have mug shots
taped to their ugly faces
of pig lard and
privilege enough to be a warning
for every girl speeding past with tunes in her ears to drown
out the seagulls desperate for scraps
only to pick at the meat and leave the shiny wrappers behind.
I am not a delicacy
to be fingered like an unlabeled box of chocolate
covered poison apples brought to you
by a bitter bitch of a hag.
Old Country Buffet
College, why not
“Fine! Great, actually.”
“Good, learning a lot.”
Desktop; no cursor yet
“Don’t you love it?”
I guess that’s rhetorical.
I’m an English major, remember?
“You should really write this down…”
“I’ve met some really great people.”
People I grab lunch with…no…with whom I get lunch.
“Just swell, we’re looking at all of our housing options.”
We is I and
NO FRICKIN IDEA
“If we were being honest to gender and queer critical theory,
I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
Good lord now you’re getting The Look.
“Saussure’s analysis creates the foundation of interpellation…”
This page is not responding…
Headline: sexist serial killer gets throat slit by pissed off feminist.
“Just a little busy.”
“Too much on your plate?”
Just catering to you.
“No! I love being busy” it keeps me occupied,
Otherwise I might actually say what I think:
This Thanksgiving when
You bite off more than you can chew
And mention the Native Americans after
You’ve filled your plate with rich food,
Remember that the promise of community
Becomes mere survival when
One side holds the guns and the
Other meets its end…
“I think that’s enough for today. Class dismissed.”
kEystrokes apppear haltingly .
“Are you happy?”
Only when it’s convenient.
“Let’s say a quick grace.”
Aren’t we already blessed?
You were sleeping but I was there
watching you breathe in your little glass bowl,
my sweet blonde angelfish
with tubes protruding from your nose
because you weren’t made like the rest in your school, No –
You come from the brightest lights of the carnival
that fizzle out after one spectacular weekend,
Its sweetness fleeting
I never understood why you
liked those balloons so much –
instantly attached to something
destined to be let go
at that inevitable moment –
why was I surprised? –
our eyes cast up, watching
it float away
the cotton candy clouds mocking
my cries to
Hold on, hold tight
while you just smiled and waved farewell
as if you knew we’d meet again
We only braved the Fun House once
because I lost you
in the mirrors, led away
by people we’d never met
who poked your plastic bag so
your reflection squirmed and contorted.
Magicians dressed in scrubs wielded saws
and claimed safety amidst the symphony
of saline pumps and clinical clowns,
still you followed them not a pennywiser
There’s a carnie off somewhere picking
the pocket of a mother watching helplessly
as her daughter stares starry-eyed at
the cutest kid in her grade school
She doesn’t yet know
that carnival fish die quickly
and her hope is tied to an unsteady hand
and three ping pong balls
My angelfish’s exhibit is standing-room-only
voyeurs stare under harsh halogens burning out
Her bright light, leaving a rusty bulb
lamented with every hushed whisper,
each extended embrace,
their glassy, sympathetic eyes
blinking back tears
as I desperately tap the glass
hoping she moves.
The Rebound Effect
I. The High
You know – when you step into a
perfectly warm shower after being
berated by an endless string of cold
days and feel the heat your heart
couldn’t even fathom to this point
II. The Comedown
Chiberia claimed another victim
Today, which is to say
multiply the feeling of running frozen
fingers under a scathing spigot
And add the culmination of post-
holiday barren eves
III. The Reality
Now you’re dreading this point It
hits you, the sweet release too much
the person who was
How can I write about us
When we have not even begun,
When our closest intimacy has been
A perfectly misplaced brush of hands
Along the lake after a concert
It was windy and dark,
Hair whipping across our faces
Obscuring your eyes
Like the city blocks the stars
So we bumped into each other –
What an exhibition of grace
Or was it on the train,
When I thought we had reached a halt
Right before the platform
We lurched forward
One hand pressing the middle of my back
The other grabbing my shoulder
I let my free arm cross my chest
Pledging allegiance to your hand
Until we started moving again
So we held each other for a split second –
Written off as mere mechanics
Still, how long were those moments
Measured against the fantasy of time,
Sublimity of memory surpassing
The reality of regimented ticks
Counting down the seconds until
You answer “years”