rest.

i feel foolish

to want to see you.

i am not giddy in

your presence,

i am not wooed.

your body is nothing

like his

or others

i have been cheapened for,

it has not made me

reconcile with god

though i wear you

as a coat

to sleep peacefully.

i haven't seen

the sunrise

in weeks.

a dream.

he said,
"of all the mind's prisons,
why come here?"

purple rain.

dig if you will a picture

of you and i whiskey bitten

heavy headed nymphs.

i say

"let's watch 'purple rain'"

but we didn't watch 'purple rain'

we writhed to squealing guitar

licks

your tongue flicking to

morris day and the mother fucking time!

you shoulder shuffled having

jungle loved once yourself.

later

as i take you 

in my mouth,

you mouth

animals strike curious

poses

i've always thought of you that way,

you beast,

from the first poem

to the menacing last.

though i'd be foolish

to think, though fair,

i am a dove,

but i do fit easily

into your bowled

paws.

the lights dimmed

and we paused for prince.

he showered us in poetry

as you had spilled

yours gently cross me.

we were the cowardly

weekend lovers.

we were only supposed to be

some kind of friends.

you reached out to something new,

and i know,

i'll have to do the same thing too,

but i still haven't seen the rain.

i need someone to guide me

to the rain.

vagary

i always want a shower

after reading bukowski.

that, or curse,

spit 

or fuck.

there is something 

terribly beautiful

about an ugly man

who knows

his face looks like

it's been chewed.

sad 

old 

brutes

longing for tenderness,

studying the dimples

along their finger streaked

walls at two

or three o'clock

in the morning, or afternoon

thinking,

"my god, 

she makes it

so easy to love.

she does impossible things,

she sucks

the life from me,

but inside her, 

i am alive,"

and they resent her

for loving them,

these are the men

for whom i bend.

fucking terrible drunks.

they acquired

the taste 

for thick women

only after

their fat gloves had

coursed a bottle's

warp.

they taste of ash

and barrel.

he'd lick his lips

and say,
"i love the taste

of alcohol

from someone

else's mouth"

and i'd think of spitting.

i'd suck clean the sugar

to rot my teeth to root:

i'd say, "you're a coward"

and he'd smile, sympathetically.

he'd pat me on the head

then ass.

soon i'd undress

for those black tar eyes

and he'd fuck me like

he hated me,

because we both know

he does.

disgusting men

i'd let cut me

if dared,

to watch something pretty

grow frightened

and bleed,

these are the men

who cost me sleep.

the new american dream.

at what age

do you hang

your boots from

their noosed laces

on a nail foundation

thrashed by an unseen

hammer?

he said,

"it's like pulling off a band aid.

once you break those ties, 

all notions of doing things

a certain way because

you 'should' seem silly."

activist.

you had me at "sociopolitical economics."

i confess,

i've only had opinions

but no gut.

i confess,

you are not adonis

born of this earth.

you were not baked

in an eighty-seven degree urban

summer oven 'til golden brown

or cooked through,

though i like that you are soft

and raw.

i dig your seasoned mind.

i want to fuck and sleep in

your bookshelves.

say, "white guilt" again, but slower.

you had me at "labor union conference in chicago"

you had me at "sheep farmer."

i confess,

i don't claim to be more

than misinformed or

under-read.

your tolerance

frightens me

because i am not 

yet

there.

with any luck,

i might get to hear you slur

or lose your temper.

you had me at "anarchist"
'cause you mean it.