empty stage

empty evening at the bar watching a woman wearing
too much eye makeup read poems on an empty stage -
poems about kittens and stars and how self conscious
she feels in bed, but i want to hear her read poems about pouring tequila on her naked collarbones -

i want to see her sweat
so that the mascara runs away from her eyes
like animals flee forest fires, want her
to be wild & recklessly drunk when i press against her
and say, "baby. baby.
this - is how poets fuck.
no kittens here.
no stars, cos you can't make
real love
in the middle of a sewing circle."

this bar is so goddamned classy that i am breaking all my vows with no apologies to my wounded ethics, my stricken morality, my ridiculous need to prove stupid shit to myself and pouring whiskey into my face.

next guy, he writes poems because
he wants to be seen as a poet, not
cos he's gotta write poetry and it's a
midlife crisis sex poem about
how sensitive he is when he's sticking
his cock in a girl - then he does one about
homeless children (because there's a PLAGUE of them,
in small town south dakota)
& now everyone knows how heartfelt he is &
i am sick
at the bar
writing poems about the bartender
and the way that she pours drinks and i wish
i could write sensitive sex poems
about the softness where thighs meet
but i've always been the, "lay back, baby
& pretend your feet hate each other!" type,
so the girl at the end of the bar,
the one with calliope hair & corinthian legs -
she's got tits like homeless children, cos
don't i wanna take them home & hold 'em &
tell them everything's gonna be alright -
she got no interest in me and my
hastily scribbled poems about scuffmarks on my shoes
cos she's infatuated with a fuckpoet
& a sewing circle.

drunk
in the back of the bar and now it's my turn & i walk thru the talk and the scattered applause and up there i tell them about the girl who aborted herself in my bathtub with my ribs hitched to my heart tied down to a bloody piece of muscle and i can't breathe enough to speak under all those lights and i am alone under all the white and blue and orange and green spots trying not to cry not to fuck up this poem that i want to flick at them like truth or blood from unthinking clenched fingers but ain't no truth in bleeding so i just try to throw it in their faces and when i am done i take eight steps down with my jaw clenched against everything and

they all look like i shot their homeless children
and i'm alright with it & maybe
i do write sex poetry.
just not the sensitive kind.

Courtesy of Reluctance Press, copyright 2006