Always End up Trusting Cary Grant
The unwanted hand on her shoulder
is the pivot of this motion picture.
I'll admit her neck, stretched as if
before the ax, invites one's inner sadist,
but it's not the same. Hitchcock's
made his cameo, has gone and left
his cattle to imprint their dispositions
on this overzealous voyeur.
I'm addicted to discomfort.
There's a certain gurgled laugh, a slant
of calf raised light against suspense
that gets me going. There's the gun
as well, the sulking, smoke-filled
mouth, great sex that comes
with shock, and with the early onset
of one's Stockholm Syndrome.
In a theater on the eastside I jerked off
while watching cityscapes get owned
by frame and fancy camera work.
Can't believe I didn't cum. A dead sun
in the gangster's eyes, smiling premonition
of untimely coming to your grave. You give
your all until you're all used up and then
you get to say at least that you survived.
Come in and Get Lost
Through the foyer of The Carlyle, playing
dress-up in my knockoff goddess garments,
open as a mother as the gala fills with gods
and CEOs. The squid, they say, tastes biblical,
the flood to be exact. Reminders we're survivors,
chewing on our Hokusai fancies. I could fill this
wing with what I've been inclined to hide
inside me: kraken, sure, corked champagne,
bronze erections of the fabled brave. The entrée
is a siren summoned from her odyssey with nets
and sous'-knives, served with a berry soup of mid-
day blue. I am uncomfortable with beauty.
What we kill we eat and what we spare becomes
our savior. There's no master where there is
no slave. I said we; let's leave that be as I'm a forgery
so skillfully constructed it outdoes the real thing.
I mean just watch me strip off this humanity;
newest virgin in a harem, hell-bent on a takedown.
Earthquakes Are My Favorite Way to Make Islands
We ignored the cries of the carbon monoxide
detector, coitussed in a pose like Pompeii
corpses while the cabbies grew irate outside.
This is the last day of our lives, until tomorrow.
When I say I'm fine I mean the sky has opened
like an old wound under scurvy, shown me
all its cogs, I can't go back to normal thought.
We're pretty when we sleep. We're singing old
Bon Jovi so loud all our bones are shaking,
makes me want to break him in my mouth.
Another thrill, another man to walk with
through the flood-lit film sets of Central Park.
It starts off like a cyst, this partnership, gets
supersized until it's visible to strangers, just
as dangerous. A voice comes on the platform
in the subway, warns against cavorting
with abandoned baggage, say something, it orders.
So I tell an armed guard how we squeeze each
other's words like triggers: tongue to cheek,
to weekends spent accruing welcome bruises.
We could quit it if we choose. His moonshine
on my breath the next day, staving off advances
from an old friend in a dead cafe.
I love your world, he said, just keep it to yourself
— I love your mouth.
In a Star Wars-themed fever dream
I saw him lassoed by a solar flare and held
there in a warmth I can't provide. Blue light
clicking upon waking, wishing
caffeine came easy as a boy of twenty.
Think these sausages have feelings.
See them smiling from the skillet, soaking
olives plucked in Florence by a sun-fold crone.
Wish I'd been there popping bottles
of Prosecco by the boastful shadow
of that lady. Can't fake mornings undone
by a brain as overanxious as a surgeon
with a bone to pick. One busted nose
and I keep thinking it'll shift again, fall
off: some stupid uncle's magic trick
gone wrong: I got your nose, I got your nose!
He got me hooked on the illusion I was whole.
Sit How You Want, Dear; No One's Looking
There's nothing worse than wishing
that you had. You slip into a skinny
jean and beam up at the hard face
of a man with natural disasters
on his mind. It's time to hang out
naked in your kitchen, cook the landlord
his beloved dog. You're free, baby,
hold your own against the gods
who thrashed you as a kid, the ones
who didn't. Choosing to believe you're
here to hone the craft of living. No one
knows a thing. A demon scans the platform
for a child, chaste, unbreakable, the sort
he aims to break. The cockroaches
are prepped for post-apocalypse, crabs
quarrying the sand for your abandoned
cigarettes. This is as pleasant as it gets.
Now a bomb goes off outside the theatre
and you're spared; the concierge
and ticket boy blown lobby-wise in pieces
big enough to pocket. You'll outlive this
heat, but it won't be the ozone going,
it'll be the fervor glowing
through the left breast of your favorite blouse.