She will not be perfect.
Her skin will fall and flop.
She talks and talks
and I of course make the mistake
of judging her value by
the changing of her physicality
while granting myself privileges
of mind, lintellect, and earnings.
My breath stales to phlegm
and stinks its sad mature mucosal
isolation of men.
I become known as
the handjob tyrant
and look towards other women,
but as I grow old and my hardons
no longer work
do I have the courage to love her
as she turns into something
eternal, beyond stupid words?
Something my mother told me
as a toddler,
listen to that feeling inside your head
and maybe I’ll still be afraid of.
This poem was not written for the
fashionable young people or the
vainfully rich and egotists
rushing in and out of the stores and
clinics of the City.
This poem was written for the leaves,
grass, and particles
still vassals to the wind,
not the human negrotude
put in place by the ancient Court
of Ine, ingrained in your movies and
Would I have to leave you
When the cities were sick.
Choking, polluted messes,
discarded, but still not discarded.
Of course, like all great shit shows,
built by the masculine gender.
Gravel, trash, petrochemicals.
Fused, smashed, grinded together.
But look, there is a new glassy
skyscraper rising above.
Phalluses we pat our backs over.
The leaders retire in them.
Guarded by their Imperium Guards.
These are truths of the era.
Dumb, choking, cough.
So would I have to leave you
to love you, to love in a new way,
beyond the dumb dome of
violent boys playing with their
To kiss the blue bend, bleeding
to black, infinity, freedom.
Civilizations not built around
gold, silicon, and silicon dioxide,
but light, mineral soil, air, the
the unworded, and the unmolecule.
In the summer
I will want to jump
from the city bridges
into the polluted river below
the carcinogenic world
that men have built
from their grand manly
then I’ll climb out,
to be loved properly by you
and your ripe womanly
It’s like I’m going to war in
World War II
My legs are shaking
I need a ciagarette
My lungs are big
I’ve not had enough calories for the day
though I still love you
On my way up
to the bell tower
where the sniper is
My best friend had his head blown off
and it splattered on me
Gave me the vegence to kill them
It’s why we should never forget
The mechanisms at play
Capitalism produced all this
The tobacco from Turkey
The landing on beaches
and the copius loss of life
that makes us men
We were able to talk once
Looking on the street, it
Someone wanted hugs, did
someone want a hug
The landscape of the moment,
an orange mountain
Has turned to shadow
where the old ones with
leather and wood
kept talking as humans
Yet in the morning
with their children
they hold computers
amongst the silver bridges of
We have gone down to the
but it is gone now too
Such passionate men are these
The ones in the fields in Turkey
Who have left their concrete buildings
Taken their radios to dance on a
close to brushy woods together
Only as men all along should have
and made the world a little softer
with joy and expression
The days is done. The pop music played.
Cavafy’s been read. The scotch drank.
And a train howls solitarily through town,
proclaiming the Industrial Revolution on
the good contemporary day; the greedy
Industrial Revolution, it won’t let go. The
door is open. The pearl land curves of her
ivory body curl on air, the languid, suspended,
electric air. Her smell scents the world. One
thousand six hundred miles away she is
there. Her eyes, the jewels of empires, fall
on concrete, sad concrete. Concrete the
immigrants laid from the bounty of war. Her
chestnut hair flies as the banner of tyrants
and servants. The genetics are broken in
the City. People enter the department store.
People enter the department store. The apple
core rots in her garbage. Her constitution was
formed from war. She lives in the capital of
Capitalism. It lusts her femininity. It loves her
curves. It floors on the energy drinks of the
tiendas. O the asbestos crumbles!
The day is done.
As I sat looking out over the dreary fields of fog
I remembered the pores of skin on your legs
they laid out with the occasional reddish brown freckle
There was something incredibly normal about this skin
Was it just that I was used to it?
Was it of common genetics, duplicated over and over?
Or maybe was it rare and specific, did it hail from a
certain village in Ireland or Sweden somewhere or
maybe it was even France, moving amongst the
The timid moments of self-doubt I have felt on those legs
and then lay with them as conquering heroines
In a way it was like looking at your legs was like
looking across a field in ancient Europe
an amalgamation somewhere
a gathering for mine eyes to look upon them
To remember them in low light in bedrooms
as the fields of fog advance on wayward hearts
out in Briscoe County, Texas and the field larks sing
With gendered love
With gendered love
I want a woman who looks perfect
Who can get pregnant
A man with lots of money
Who answers sentences perfectly
I want his pleated pants to step up
Before the room I want him to have
Just before her hair is sprayed and shaped
the way that hair should be
on television or magazines
And lets not forget the dinner parties
and sport cars
that contain such broken empathies
the TV talked and it said
you’re not good enough for me
it said instead
another woman was
then pointed me in the direction
of billboards and magazines
there’s more over there
they’re better instead of these
inside my head
there’s something even better
than these fantasies
that is what the TV said
that is what the TV’s saying
something better than you or I