Category: Poem

Sorry for cumming too
quick, baby, I was
swept away by the feel

of your fingers sliding
between my folds, and
your kisses between

my shoulder blades, and
the whisper of your breath
on my neck as you murmured

you'd missed me.

Camping Trip
I was once convinced
by an ex to go with him
to a music festival.

Three days of speed metal
during the daylight hours and
techno and trance at night.

We spent two days high
on acid, laughing ourselves
silly at random shit.

When we were finally
able to fall asleep, I was
woken up hours later by

the sound of rushing
water and when I opened
my eyes I saw my purse

float by. I turned over
to find him standing at
the mouth of the tent

and pissing into it,
rather than out of it;
understandable, really.

“Friend,” I asked in my
gentlest tone, “is this
prudent? Do you think,

maybe, this is a bad
decision?” He looked
at me, a mixture of

confusion and defiance,
and without hesitation
aimed his dick at me

and pissed between my
eyes. That day I learned
you don’t ask questions

in these situations, and
you can’t argue with
a pissed off pisser.

I watched him - 
as beautiful as
any woman - from
the doorway of 
the bathroom

as he smudged 
eyeliner along
his ice blue
eyes, an artform
more men should learn.

When he glanced 
at me in the 
mirror, I wisecracked
"You want some lipstick
with that?" 

Causing him to
arch his thin
brows in defiance,
"If you weren't
being such a 
smartass about it
maybe I would."

I'm dreaming of
rocky deserts;
dehydrated packed
earth and a 
blistering sun. 

I'm dreaming of
vultures - those
winged friends -
swooping overhead
in slow circles, 

as my body
lies still and
prostrate, feeling
the death and 
desolace all 
around me -

rising up, and
through me, 
cleansing 
this body
like a
burnt
offering. 

I was thinking about New Orleans today. 
My New Orleans, whose streets and alleys
are as personal and intimate to me as
a pussy stroke. 

Far away from the blaze of Bourbon
where the neon children live their
lives that burn bright, flicker, then die. 

Away from the tourist traps where
Black men are forced to shuck and jive
for those who are simultaneously lily 

White and scaly with sunburn, and who
are all too pleased to press a dollar
in a palm that’s butter mellow or 

burnt sienna to ease their consciences
of what their granddaddies did and what
their grandbabies will continue to do. 

Far, far outside the districts where the 
night air is weighted differently; the sound
of the Zydeco creeping on the wind like a

ghost in the alleyways. Where the slow
drawl of, ‘how you doin’ ‘chere?’ is as
satisfying as the crunch of new gravel

under the heel of my boot; good for the
ear and the Soul. Where the familiar
smell of smoke, stale beer and sawdust 
floors feel like home, and I can dance, 
                                   and dance, 
                                        and dance. 

I don't know where I'm at
or where I'm going - 
only that I am standing
at a precipice and the
only way forward is 
                   d
                   o
                   w
                   n
                   .

Instead of feeling anxious
or fearful, I'm fantasizing
about what it will feel like
to finally tip over, head first.

I imagine it will be a relief;
the dropping sensation in my 
stomach - like that second you
crest over the first coaster hill -

and the wind in my hair, 
tangling it all to hell,
as I plummet toward the ground.

What a comfort it'll be to
leave the dust of the old
behind; what a delight to
be carried on the thermal
of a new life.

If you want to know
the REAL reason why
your boyfriend won't
let you fuck him

up his ass you have
to ask questions - 
deductive questions -

the kind of questions
that eliminates all the
superficial reasons. 

"Do you think it's gay?"

No.

"Are you afraid you'll like it?"

No.

"Are you afraid it'll hurt?"

No.

"Are you worried poop will come out?"

<<Silence>>


There ya go, ladies. 
Your man won't let you
fuck his ass because

he's afraid his own 
shit will come back
to haunt him.

They say you can't get 
blood from a stone, but 
you tried to get milk from
my bones to nourish your 

anorexic heart that weighs
love and control in equal
measure on the rigged
scales of parenthood. 

I've grown up in the 
shadow of your buzz
words and catch phrases
for women:

Cunt.
Bitch.
Dyke.
Slut.
Cocktease.
Prude. 
Whore.

Pronouncing with a 
fascist authority what
women can and can't, 
shouldn't, be or do  

And me trying valiantly
to mould myself to the 
exact form for what you
consider the ideal man -

because women, in your
eyes, ain't shit - so 
that I could garner a
single scrap of affection

or respect from you.
But after 38 years, 
I've finally caught 
on to your game - 

better late than never! - 
and I'd rather char my
bones to cinders in the 
crematorium of my own

righteous fury and indignation
than ever let you back in
the door that I slammed in 
your face last April.