a streetcar to nowherei.he must crack when his hands are tulle:paling dry,rough and tearing,bought by the yardor cent-marked minute,spin a skirtthat won't last a winter,shed bohemiaand snort ballerinas,hope he's flexiblelike tulle:thin and shimmering,don't stay another minute,clear the aisles and say,halloween's overand he must crackwhen his hands are tulle:quiveringwind-burnt dancers,caught aflameby a craving sparklike tulle:crisp and seething,acrid burning,black waste and thin ashii."name, like your real name orjust something i can call you,something that won't make mefeel like i'm talking downto you. not becausei r
a string drawn tautthere are so many new starsin your skin that i can't believeeach neuron is its own world, alightwith spinning planets and gaunt aliens breathing godin the absence of your name froma dull life: dim cars on the paved streetand the cat walks sideways here, beneatha ladder that clatters and you shudder,saying godi just had a chill, and is this room coldor are we in the gut of a giant who's strung outseven days and lifeless, biting the apple anda dragon, wishing for his mother to coo mijo, dioses magno: the earth is spinning in the eyesof a turtle with a red shell who swims inthe flowers ophelia braided, who swall
To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady greygentle kin, you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.ii. darjeelingbengali goddess, i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astri
To Him, With Loveintimacy is airing out those facts you have held against yourself,allowing someone else to draw his own conclusions about your vain pursuits of existence.
Late Monet in a Boy's Bedroomyou have mourned for a childhood spentsiphoning color's touch from men with your eyesunshut, begging at the heels of lovers whowanted to know your shadows. you accepted theminto your bed, reminding yourself of such moments whenyou lay back: powerless, aroused. his hands knew youin wide spectrums they shouldn't have, but you lustedand lust for another whose brush is careless, whose teethwill paint your neck without praying to consequence,who will have you jealously, selfishly: who will let youcall him by that paternal name that rots your liver, thatmakes your tongue soft for affectations. he was a liar,but a charming, intelligen
IntimacyI asked to be slapped—and your palm met my cheekwith constraint, cupped to lessenthe ensuing redness, the responsive tearsthat welled but only in my left eye.There are things like tealightsand dinners after midnight that we agreeto be romantic: that we consumethrough antique filters, lace between our fingers, but your palms sweat when we hold handsand I've never liked skin webbing,nor the catch of calluses—So, I propose to rewritea definition: mostly for my sake,but also for the sakes of others who have found themselves wondering if they might be a-somethingbecause they don't like to be touchedsoftly on the sk
novemberthe sun is a dim pearl beneath a blanket of grayhung low from the heavens;i'm your yellow tremorpaled by the cold, achingfor a proper sunrise.
terminali.we landed in oklahomaand drank cheap martinis in the terminal;you carried my guitar and fell in lovewith my voice but not my tongue,not my hands.ii.there's a man with a garagethat looks like a plane because nothingmeant more to him. will you make a modelof that bar? will you make a modelof my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhomewith her and three children?iii.the problem was you're not gay.the problem was there was feelingbut it wasn't for us. i had you butit wasn't for us.iv.i'm not sure if i resent you,but i remember that bar and every pockmarkon the stool you sat on while i playedthe song that parted yo
lukewarmshe had the kind of voice that seemed to be stuck in the hour of four o'clock in the morning - soft and tired and luring,mumbling her way throughsubways and tunnel lightsall pale yellow with noise.there was tea and long bathsand longer absences, hiccups of breath the best she could do. long springs andlonger falls, one equinox to the nextand still the badwas never that bad and the goodwas never thatgood,and she continues to humthe birds continue to singthe apples continue togrow and sour andfall,and bury themselvesagain.
love's austere and lonely officesi.ronnie picks rose petals and eats them, chews the pink to yellowin his cigarette teeth. his sister, peggy,asks how they taste, and he says, "good,like whimsy and perfume," and picks three petals fat with pigment and water; she tastes the first and likes the second and the third is the sweet on her tongue when ronnie dies of liver failure. she eats the reddest blooms on his casket.ii.if tommy were a girl and jenny a boy,the children would be perfect:tommy with impish nose and nymph hands,jenny rumbling with the rooneys from new city,and mother frets for both their blond[e] heads.peggy buys the twins paletasbut ronnie spe
Narcolepsylurid enigma, and a stroke of starry nightvulnerable, you areachilles heel and weepthe loss of venus and marsand all her pitying apathyof bittersweet occultation; but for only a moment of silence lonesome quarry of internalized warsand striking, clement gemsjust unfold:sleep
Eighteight.i felt most violatedwhen you denied it—evidence may have mountedin the mouths of other victimsbut i haven't spoken—even in the wake of certainty,family and loyaltyforked my liar's tongue—maybe it's enoughthat you know what you did—because i can't bring myselfto hate you.seven.your son's beautiful—you were my firstand i don't regret that—in your arms,i realized myself.six.it wasn't my fault—i received the letter years too late and suicide has never been sympatheticin the eyes of those who suffered to live—yet, i write for you,remember your face acutely,long fo
BeliefBeliefShe tells him the child is not his.The old women mutter and cluckas they slap wet cloth against river stones.He wraps his arms around his chest as though he fearshe will also sprout with child. "A dove,"he quietly asks? She points to a blood spoton her cheek. "He pecked me here." It still hurtswhen she touches it. It always hurts. He loves the child, the cuckold's hatchling. He loves his lying wife.But he knows she lies. When the old men stumbleinto the stable, beards matted, coarse as grain,he simply mutters, "Drunks," bad wine, betrayal.One afternoon as he saws cedar planks, sawdust thick as pollen,an angel catches his
her depressions used to wrinkle the bedsheets.she lay around for hours, then called out, "i don't know whether i'm too old or young for this, but i'm just too tired to face today and tomorrow might be the same. will you get your brother for me? i left him at school this morning, and i'm not sure what time he needs to be picked up. i've been forgetting so much lately,so maybe i should work less, take a vacation somewhere warm, or sleep until the year settles its dust. but we can't do that now,can we? responsibility's a bitch, jorge. don't get married,at least not to someone you'll divorce."like a good son, i collected adrian from the pavementwhere he'd been waiting too long,a
astronomerswhen we're together dusk is containable; the moon in my palms and the stars on your ceiling.we lull the city to sleep with our theories of life; my tongue curlinginto speech.do you remember, when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?that night, you balanced a cigarette off your lips,and I watched the vermillion flame burn life as a newborn sun;stars forming, planets moulding and constellations snakedabove our eyes.i imagined what it would be like to be curled inside the embers creator and destroyer of worlds, so close to your lips.
After MidnightHe tried to ignore the knock at the door, but it became a bother; it grew louder and more frequent until he jumped out of bed, stormed down the hall, and almost peeled the door off its bolts slamming it open. "What do you-" There was Micah, soaking wet and dripping, shivering to the bone and paler than death. His teeth chattered, and Noel wasted no time ushering him in. "T-thanks..." "It's past midnight and raining. What are you doing?" "Nothing." He pulled off the drenched, too-big clothes until he stood in nothing but his underwear, and Noel realized he'd gotten frailer. He could count his ribs, the kno
cigarettesi finished my last pack on fridayand i'm getting yellow-stained jitters,demons in my spine and knights in my lungs: bitter-spun damsels are aching,arching in my fingertips and beggingto feel the heat of the dragonhe was a more passionate lover.
catholic guiltMother Mary, made of porcelain,painted in easter pastels, rests atop the dresser and watches overmy sister and i playing uno, but thatbecomes a game of chase when i shout"cheater!" and run as she shrieks after;Mary teeters when my back hits drawers,but she topples when little sister, gleeful,pushes headfirst into my arms. "jorge!"but we stiffen, hold our breaths, and glittering Mary, Holy Mother, rests uponthe floor, and i find her more prayerfulshattered, catching sunlight, but mother,made of organ-alma, follows a noise andin the doorway she is pallid like sheetsshe folds all year. "jorge, mariadon't tel
lungburningyou get the lungburning after midnightand you're dying to be demeaned,leaning up against the window andbreathing like you wish to inhale, toswallow, and you've choked into yourstomach things other men would loathe,and you have this bruise onyour thigh: you're trying to forget thatthigh, with a skinny scar and the badmemories, recalling purple colors;like that man said, you were easy, and like that man said, you have thin legs anda wandering mind: you tap the glass andthink about the zoo, except you realizeyou're the one encased in something smallerand the world could look in on you, butthey wouldn't care to, an
untitledseducing the writer is pointless;he'll seduce himselfif you're silent.