(A)Mused | Poems that Suck

Hold me close and kiss me –

 – then text her from ‘our’ bed.

Call me by the names that only you know –

– as you simp for her half naked photos.

Blow smoke, talking about keys, growing old,  meeting your mama and babies –

-while you plan to take couple photos with her.

‘Make love’ – never fuck – me –

 – while visions of her dance in your head.

Use me when you want to cum –

-then talk to her for hours, lying to me by omission.

Just say the truth –

I’m the Bargain Basement clearance rack version

of what you always wanted, but could never get.

Tell me –

You’re not in love, but

love my attention

and

will keep cumming in me

’til something better

comes along.

Kept | Poems that Suck

“Can I keep you?” I whispered against your lips.

Not whimsy, but a real question.

“Yes,” you murmured into my smile.

Our bodies pressed against each other,

Like two halves trying to make a whole.

“How long?”

How long will you stay?

“As long as you want me.”

And I sunk into that pink, hazy bubble

of bliss that I’m always in when you’re near.

“Ok. I’ll keep you for good.”

I meant forever, but didn’t want to scare you.

.

.

.

.

.

Five heartbeats, before I ask.

“Will you keep me?”

Will you really stay?

Do you really want me?

“Mmhm”

.

.

.

Three heartbeats before..

“How long?”

.

.

Two heartbeats.

As if the answer is obvious.

“Forever,” you said, your cum dripping down my hips.

“Ok, forever,” I agreed, kissing you with eyes wide shut.

Fourteen | Poems that Suck

I wonder what I'd be like
had you not smelled my
daddy issues like, like a
shark scents blood in 
                                         the water.

What kind of life I'd have
if you never whispered
obscenities down the 
phone line into my fourteen
                                                 year old ears.

What I'd think about 
love, and sex had I not
given up my virginity 
in a one night stand 
                                    so you wouldn't
                                    be disappointed.

Or even if I hadn't learned
from you that love, sex, and
the person you're fucking are
of no consequence so long as
                                                         I get mine. 

It's no wonder that I
am terrified by love and
find sex to be hollow, and
have an overwhelming fear 
                                                 of abandonment.

Corpus | Poems that Suck

This is my body. 

36.
33.
36.

Cellulite on the backs of my thighs, 
a highway of broken capillaries,  
mapping the pot holes of cottage cheese.

This is my body.

Tits beginning to sag with age as
the years stretch out longer with
nipples scarred by youthful piercings
when we all believed we were indestructible. 

This is my body.

With a belly that is no longer flat, 
but mushes like soft bread;
an effect of diminishing estrogen. 

This is my body.

Criss-crossed with scars, tattoos
and crows feet which whisper the
secrets that I've forgotten long ago.

This is my body. 

As I stand naked before a mirror
and will myself to love it though
it juxtaposes what mass media dictates.

This is my body.

Mine to love, 
hate, 
exploit, 
destroy, 
sanctify.

This flesh and bone. 
This is home. 
This is where I live.

Homelessness in Four Micro Stories | Flash that Sucks

I saw someone’s guts today.

By that I mean the gaping hole in his belly was so large that, when he pulled the brownish-yellow iodine and blood soaked gauze away from it, I could see the pink, lumpy tubing of his lower digestive tract, slick with hot, red blood.

He and my kid brother share a name – a name once made famous by Alan Ladd in the 1950’s. Both of them are tall and whip thin; only one of them has a Southern accent – the other has all of his teeth.

He had run away from the hospital after two months of doctors cutting away his flesh. Finally he decided that going back to the streets was the better option.

“They said I got cancer. Maybe I should go back south. My grand baby was born yesterday, and I’d sure like to see him before I die.”

***

In his father’s tongue his name means “the heart,” a name so apt that I wondered if his parents had some notion of the kind of man he’d become. He looked like a child to me; wide dark almond eyes, and wild curly hair that sprung from his scalp like a lion’s mane, as soft as sheep’s wool. Even his hands looked like a child; tiny and chubby, decorated with delicate fingernails.

I learned he was gay, HIV+ and suffered from a rapidly deteriorating mental illness that closely resembled schizophrenia. When I first came to the shelter I would find him outside, lounging in the sun. He gave huge smiles, tight hugs, told excellent jokes, and held my hand. But as the summer began to die, I watched my friend start to fade.

The days became shorter and his catatonic episodes increased. He’d isolated himself entirely – that is until crashing and screaming was heard from his room. He emerged, drenched in in blood and disappeared into the underbelly of the local hospital.

“Why would I talk to someone who doesn’t give a fuck about me?”

***

His right index finger was jabbed against the corner of his mouth giving him a deeply pensive look as he described the conditions at another shelter in a soft, deep voice. The very same side held a deep indentation at the temple, as if someone had gently pinched his head like a ball of dough. In the middle of his forehead was a deep, jagged scar.

The bullet was still in there, he told me while pointing to his temple, and another in his chest. He’d been cornered by a man with a gun, trying to roll him for what little money he had. It was fight or flight situation – he fought.

“The last thing I remember thinking was that I had to make it home to my kids.”

***

He was the first friend I made at the shelter. A sort, stocky white guy with sleeve tattoos, a graying beard, icy blue eyes and no teeth. We played cards while he told me about he’d been arrested for selling crack in the early 2000’s, and the abandoned garage and lumber yard he slept in at night.

He told me about his current struggles with crack; how he’d crawl out of that filthy abandoned garage, smoke crack and cry about how he’d lost his way so terribly. He’d ask me to hold his money so he couldn’t score, but he’d come back and retrieve it from me the next day.

Then one day he disappeared. Eventually I found him in jail for violation of probation. Now, months later, he’s been released and I cannot find him. Earlier this week a man matching his description was killed by a freight train….the identity still hasn’t been released.

“I hate this. I fucking hate myself! I don’t want to do this shit… but i just can’t stop.”

***Italicized quotes are actual words from the guests’ mouths.***

A Love Poem Told in Hair | Poems that Suck

I want you to find
 my hair in your bed;
  a rainbow of reds, pinks,
   browns, blues, greens, blonde 
     and maybe even a little bit of gray.

I want you to find
 it wrapped around the
  base of your cock when
   you take a shower, and

between your ass cheeks, in
 your mouth when you eat lunch,
  scattered across your favorite 
   clothes and clinging to your cat's tail,

plastered on your shower 
 curtain, and in thin, curling 
  esses around the drain of your bathtub. 

Welcome Home | Poems that Suck

"Welcome home,"
  and by 'home' I 
    meant my pussy as
      you slid deeply inside of me.

'Home' because
  you fit perfectly,
   your cock anchoring me
     to the ground of your being

where our
  spirits mingle with each other
   in the full embodiment of co-creation. 

First Week of Classes | Updates that Suck

The first week of classes is officially complete … and, holy shit, am I tired.

My first class with Cornel West was on Tuesday, and his presence is… stunning. He holds forth in the classroom, and like the best of Baptist preachers knows how to move his body and use his voice to draw you in, raise the energy in the room and hold that energy for three hours. He is intellectually powerful, and his spirit is Titan. Coincidentally, I met him on the street after class. I was smoking a cigarette while speaking with another student when he stopped to have a chat. I was amazed by the change in him; he was gentle, and very, very PRESENT WITH YOU IN THAT MOMENT.  And I don’t mean present with you like you feel you’re under a microscope – I mean that he is THERE. The only time I’ve felt that way is a few years ago when I was running from soldiers with a group of teenage boys in one of the conflict zones I work in — we were running, and I felt totally in my body but at the same time to totally present with these boys…. we were TOGETHER.

These brief interactions with him gave me a lot of food for thought as I rode the train to my room that night. I was thinking about how so many of my seminarian friends perceive me —  as the loud mouth that makes them giggle in delight. I never particularly understood that last part – why my sassy mouth would bring such glee. As the train was cutting through the city I thought about the contents of what I say – that my “loud mouth” is often a product of my frustration. You can say I have a particularly low tolerance for bullshit – and you know some shit is about to go down when I say something along the lines of, “let’s call a spade a spade,” which is always followed by me calling it how I see it.

And then it hit me; my goal in coming to this particular seminary was to “find my prophetic voice.” Prophets, as Heschel described them, are the scream in the night. Over the last year I’ve gotten less and less patient, which has caused me to become louder and louder in the classroom and elsewhere. Paralleling that, I’ve noticed that my care for offending people, pleasing them, comforting them, their judgement or their discomfort has plummeted to zero. I just don’t give a FUCK. I have no hesitation in calling someone or something out on their bullshit. I’m done.

And that’s when I realized that I’ve found my Prophetic voice. That I’ve become so deeply rooted in my own work and message, that everything else has burned away – that I can see clearly and move forward.

Now what?