I just wanna fuck you,
I imagine you need someone like that,
someone who runs the 5 minute mile
in spiked shoes and spends twenty minutes
leaning down to kiss you,
I don’t kiss you.
Your lips touch my blood in dirty ways,
raising puddles of it like oblong heads
from out of the sea of dead,
from my veins.
My veins Irish dance around you,
lifting ten feet off the ground, Icarus
enamored with the fall, Eve
eating the unripe fruit, the green,
the soft palm of your hand.
Life lines have nothing to do with this.
We’re musicians and we know what to do,
how to write love songs about blonde girls
and brown-eyed boys, whispering to our strings
this is the one, is this the one, is there just one
your penis is the shape of Vietnam,
revived by the sound of the ocean's
You wrap your hands around my throat
one day while washing the dishes,
and my skin bruises like the Solomon Islands.
I open the newspaper to the obituaries and
spend an afternoon there,
reading your love songs.
I do not kiss you.
Good-bye, hello, or even
in charity, in public,
in the morning when you hand me
coffee in bed.
Someone else’s lipstick already on the rim,
her matching underwear on the floor.
I would walk a thousand miles
if I could just let this five page letter go,
but I know,
In Scio, Oregon there’s the smallest noodle house
with my nail-polish painted on the windowsill.
Us, arguing, wrong, like it’s another Thanksgiving,
our plates sitting full and cold, arguing
over Dorian chords, over syllables themselves.
Graphs of quadratic equations on the window,
and organic chemistry, the carbons lined up
like a chain of all the teeth I’ve lost over you.
I imagine that you need someone like me,
who swoons over strangers that acknowledge
her name-tag, always pinned on the left side
like a plea. Is this me, is that you, is this thing
Is this thing going to run its course,
before I manage to move all my spare
clothes to your place;
before I learn the paths you take downtown,
whether you stand or sit down when the elderly
board the bus;
before I realize that there’s something wrong with you,
that you keep spaghetti sauce in zip-lock bags and
eat poached eggs straight from the hot water.
Will all the good bruises fade
before I find myself pining for you,
before I fall in love with the way you feed me
slices of red pepper fresh and bloody from the
before you undress me, a thousand bobby-pins,
one at a time, leaving them scattered on the bathroom sink
like spider’s legs.
Parts of me
I’ve decided to dump in the trash:
my faith and fidelity throw away like sandwich crusts,
Your key weighs heavily in my pocket;
if I swallowed all your possessions whole
would it make it any easier to say
No to hanging my guitar beside your own.
No to leaving one window open while we sleep,
no to showering any other way but
My heart, my aching bundle of muscles,
my strongest machine, this packet of chewing gun,
my heart is a 60 watt light-bulb type of heart, it cannot
handle any higher power;
it’s a 'one brand of salsa and that’s it for the rest of my life'
type of heart,
it’s a short thesis, brief introduction,
long long thousand mile long
explanation type of heart.
Explanations for why homeward bound
sometimes sounds like you,
and sometimes sounds just like this
crappy apartment far away from everything;
explanations for how someone with so many grammatical
corrections just sitting at her finger tips
can feel for someone who speaks only in
contractions, contractions, contractions.
They call giving birth contractions
because it is two people snapped and stuck together.
It’s an imbeautiful metaphor but
part of you chipped away inside me last week,
when I said
I just wanna fuck you
and you responded by snagging your
fingers in my hair.
The first bobby-pin hit the counter,
I swallowed the red pepper and
wrote you a love letter that started with
"palm mute, down strum, up strum,
E, E, D, palm mute, down strum, palm mute,
that freckle on your earlobe is an appoggiatura,
and I wouldn’t want to marry you any other way"
and ended with
"palm, palm, down strum, down strum, E, E, D, palm,
do you wanna fuck and lean on each other,
you handsome blue transgressor.”
This is my way of telling you.
Did you know that hearts beat in iambic pentameter;
inside of me is a little Shakespeare
who developed lungs yesterday,
who touched me from the inside
and you from the outside
and it felt like a contraction,
I’m gonna love you.
I’m gonna love you,
palm mute, palm mute,
don’t don’t ba bump,
I’m gonna love you,