blistered lips

“What in the hell is going on, Sarah? Why are you acting so funny? Where’s Monica?

“Jason, I…”

Sarah turns to the window, brow knitted, trying to think of how to tell him. Damn her, she thinks, why did she have to do this today while I’m here?

“I…”

“Sarah, what’s is wrong? Just tell me where Monica is.”

“Ok, remember New Year’s Eve? Remember when you and Monica had that fight?”

Jason hesitates, grabs hold of the edge of the table. It was just a spat. They were both drunk, him stupid and drunk. Monica had said things, crazy things, but she was drunk, for god’s sake.

“Where in the hell is my wife?”

“You don’t have to yell.”

Sarah turns away, biting her lip, looking toward the kitchen wall, staring at it. She looks back at Jason. Then he hears it. Very low, hardly noticible. Living in an apartment complex, you get used to ignoring the sounds of all those lives going on around you. But this is coming from inside the apartment; this is coming from the bedroom.

Jason walks over to the wall, reaching out, touching it. He looks back at Sarah.

“Who’s in there Sarah?”

“Jason, you told her you wanted her to do it.”

“I was drunk, Sarah. I was shit-faced drunk.”

But he remembers. Remembers showing the guys all the porn on his computer. How they all laughed, telling him he was a pervert. How Monica was standing there with her arms folded over her chest. How he laughed while Barry explained to Monica what cuckolding was. How pissed she was. How, when he kept laughing, she’d told him he might just get what he wanted. How the guys had joked and said they’d help out anytime. It was all so funny then. What had he said to her? Do it and make me happy for once. Something like that.

Jason starts toward the hall. The noise seems so much louder now. Does he hear moaning? Is that Monica moaning? The bedroom door looms, white and huge. He has to see, has to know.

“Don’t go in there.”

His hand on the doorknob, Jason barely hears Sarah. But he hears Monica now.

“Give it to me. Fuck me like a whore. Harder.”

He turns the knob.

“Jason, don’t go in there.”

He pushes the door open.

And there is Monica, there is his wife. And Brad.

munchkins fed: in bed
paper read: wizard dead
(…there’s no place like home)
put on your real shoes, those ruby reds
(i won’t dance, don’t ask me)
Dorothy
(fairy tales can come true….)
we’re
gonna
paint
the
town
(gotta dance!)

green

freud the mind fucker
molested sacred dreamscapes:
his healings impotent

alone
am i forgotten
do i
(sometimes)
walk
in your dreams
does your cheek
(perhaps)
imagine
my soft breasts
do the
cobwebs of me
(remember)
cling
to your heart
can you
smell
(surrender)
me on your pillow
does my
taste
(here)
sleep
upon your lips
does my
smile
(there)
wet
your distant eyes
can i
do you
were we
(then)

When death, reckless and brutal,
carved you from my quiet skin
I hid the grisly remains
beneath a neatly starched uniform.

Slowly, my deranged figure healed
and routine rhythms carried me from you.
I watched your hunch shadow creep away,
got drunk and danced naked in the dark.

In my new life and new clothes
I was beautiful, but my ribs were thin.
So I shoved rocks up my dress
and switched my shade of lipstick.

Last night the ragman came
but I know a wolf when I see one.
Trembling and panting, I ran into the alley
where my shoes were filled with sand.

I took off my blouse and beheld:
that the rocks were gone: my flesh
was warm and pink and full.
You had returned to fill out my body.

Smearing the lipstick from my mouth
I stepped from my skirt into the streetlamp’s light.
Then spread my fat thighs wide

….and was born.

You must never tell her, my beloved Katerina.

I caress your cheek, looking into your emerald eyes. You nod, your hair moving across the pillow like a liquid, golden halo. My beloved Katerina, if you only knew the depth of my passions, how every breath I breathe is a sacred prayer to you.

I move the sheet below your small breasts to see them one more time. The nipples are going soft now, their color fading from the flaming coral of a few moments ago. Although the seed of my loins is still hot inside your belly, my softened member quivers a bit. You are perfection. How can this hot coal of my desire ever grow cold?

I must take my leave, although my wish is that we were never parted. The dew upon your lashes tells me that you know our time, once again, grows short. In the distance we hear the cock crow, breaking the silence that has kept our secret. I must go now.

Never tell. And I will always love you. Here in the night.

someday
i will come for you
and we will go
away

those left behind
will talk about us
our callous hearts
our selfish desire

fugitives, we will fuck
our way free of them
while fucking them over
fucking convention
fucking expectation
fucking our hearts out

like they knew we would
like the said we would

fucking will be
our new religion
you cock will be my communion
my cunt will be your baptism

and we will be happy

like they knew we wouldn’t
like the said we wouldn’t

I ask myself the same question. No doubt, others wonder, too.

While you’re tall, it’s in a gangly, almost akward way.

You’re quiet–except when we’re alone. I think it’s because you know I am safe for you. At least that’s what I want to believe.

You do read. And I like that. You even read the books I give to you. I like that even more.You bring me coffee in the morning and think I’m cute, even desirable, with bedroom hair.

You like to surprise me with silly, inexpensive presents. Like the frog that measures rainfall. And the set of butterfly magnets. Of course, there’s the love notes and cards I find here and there.

You’re not afraid to cry with me, although sometimes I find it more contrived than honest. I guess you could be more introspective. But perhaps you’re working on that?

Sometimes we are passionate about the same movies. Other times not. Either way, they give us plenty to talk about.

You teach me things. And don’t think it unmanly to learn from me.

And you don’t try to get me to eat lobster or lamb.

I think that, as far as couples go, we are doing okay.

Don’t you?

i miss her
the body is as bold as ever
but the eyes
the eyes:
they are empty sockets

unable to heal
it’s christian zeal
that keeps the razor from her wrist
only barely

yet:
barely is enough
when
the heart is collapsed
the soul is stopped
the blood is curdled

but i miss her
and have seen your longing
locked forever into canvas metaphors
you shove beneath your bed
and stack
pile upon pile
in the corners of your different life

so we miss her
how we do miss her:

the poetry she kept in cupboards
for rainy days and rainy friends

the tears shed in buckets
for me, you, god’s children and debbie lee

the lust that moved her to seek
a reflection
that would make the need for the razor
obsolete