Ghost,
you cannot just stumble in and out of our lives at random
knocking into everything and wailing loudly
like some alcoholic
there are rules there are boundaries
you died already
and the dead don’t get the luxury
of second chances the dead are passed by in the street
without any acknowledgment of their presence
SM Nov 2010
Silly boy, when eyes smolder with a volley of canon fire
they are meant to inflict damage.
Don’t declare war against a superpower.
My ship was docked in the bedside candle,
I set it alight.
At sea I am the captain, and God, and the consuming forces of imperialism—
I don’t just meet people, I conquer them,
colonize their wills and dress them in Victorian clothes,
so when the leak springs in the hull they will be forced to peel
off every single layer.
You will pile all decoration at my feet as an offering,
kneel with open arms to receive judgment.
B7?…No D10?…No F4?...yes F3?...yes F2?...yes F1?...damn, you sunk my battleship
You don’t just meet people, you conquer them.
At sea I am vulnerable, and pray to your God for deliverance. I am afraid
there will be no end to our subtle warfare,
come candlewax or high water
You light the candle to set the mood,
kiss me too roughly, grope for strings to pull my corseted lungs tight
and call the gasps sexual excitement.
Try to shrug me off but I will keep clutching,
hold you close as the water rushes in.
Pass the eye from her to me to him to her to him again, and then me,
always me.
Me and her and him we have the gift of sight—
we have 3.
There is solidarity, there is power,
and there is love;
there is mad-love in 3,
charges and tides and cults of personality.
3 is sexy…
but it is no commodity.
as some pop stars would have you believe.
Britney, as always, puts it best:
Everybody loves counting, oh yes.
Bride and groom and me in between
finger to finger,
thread and scissor—CUT
No please don’t cut the cord yet,
don’t betray our 3,
don’t pimp our love in your videos Britney.
Pass the eye to him and her, then back to me, next her then him then him,
always him,
then me.
Hold the thread with one hand,
clasp mine with the other,
and we will banish
even the thought of separation.
1, 2, 3
SM Spring 2010
I swear that every year when it gets cold, my mother’s hands begin to resemble crocodile skin. Their smooth pale surface cracks into little red ridges, that connect and cross down her fingers in grid-like patterns, running down to the scabs that wreath her fingernails. Everywhere the skin has been stretched taunt and peeled too far back by the cold, as if even the temperature was intent on wrecking violence upon her. She complains every day as she applies her extra strength hand lotion, “goddamn Midwestern winters.”
Each time I witness her ritual I ask, “why don’t you move to the Southwest?” She laughs, usually responds with something along the lines of, “oh no, over there its dry heat, even worse on my poor hands.” I wonder if she understands that when I tell her to move I don’t mean it for the health of her hands. If she does notice, she always dismisses the insinuation.
This last time, still rubbing lotion, she had wandered into the living room to see what I was watching, and after our usual exchange a peculiar commercial started. We both paused and turned to watch while the voice-over boomed: “tired of those Midwestern winters? Well here’s the solution! Move on out to the sunny Southwest where that desert sun dances right above your head and keeps all that snow-related sadness far away. No depression can hide under this glare baby! We see absolutely everything here.”
I muted the television. We were both silent. My mother stared off into space, eyes unfocused, rubbing her hands together. Then she shook her head, as if to break away her thoughts from a weighted chain, and walked back down the hallway.
SM Nov 2010
It feels good to know you’re mine. Now drive me far away.
I don’t care where,
just far away.
Im freely sipping the best coffee this side of I-don’t-care-where-just-far,
a retro-fabulous diner, Nighthawks vibe,
feels so da da da dun, da dun da da.
Just another day,
which is to say that Time has become inconsequential,
I outlasted her—tough ol’ bitch.
Now who is Queen of England? The Sultan of Swing? The Keeper of Gramercy Park?
I am everything to anything left over,
lord and master wherever I may wonder.
My cup is overfull but never runs,
it did boil once—one of those “catastrophes”—
with violins and tears and fears and that tired-dire-end-of-this-mad-world.
But never fear, Everlast, is here! Single-handedly
SAVED THE WORLD, and preserved it in this comic book,
like some crazy Dorian-Gray-role-reversal-bullshit-whatever.
Can you explain to me how, you’re so evil, how?
It’s too late for me now, there’s a hole in the earth,
I’m out.
Jagged little pills aren’t helping:
The nosebleeds came more often,
until the blood just didn’t stop flowing.
I run my fingers through stringy black hair,
it falls away in clumps,
reveals a desert-head beneath,
a landscape worthy of O’ Keefe,
dry and cracked and itchy,
parabola above and the parabol underneath,
a fiery sunburn under the skin, tough ol’ bitch.
No reason for alarm or panic! at the disco
I am as permanent as a painting,
and the glow I radiate is so bright…
Stronger, even, than the Dime Jukebox in the corner,
playing the Last-Song-Ever
A catchy tune,
sad though, ironically stoic,
like statues left without audience or caretaker.
Monolithic, imbued with the sense of a grand gesture
unfulfilled.
So we turn up the music to snub the solemn towers passing judgment.
Don’t dare contextualize us with your cheap party clichés.
Un-obscured vision is an ailment best cured with this holy cup.
Intoxication will blur the party and reality,
cheers!
As always, I take my place in the center of things and hold court.
I demand proper party etiquette from the drunks; rituals must be observed.
Jesus, We have the same name! Kind of, not really, but you’ll see it in the translation…
--That’s brilliant, that’s perfect, meeting you here, at this party, on this terrace.
Well if I could truly commit, I honestly believe she would love me less.
Jealous rages are magic for our sex life,
The party prologues our dizzy romance.
No one at the party knows it’s the anger I sweat out,
in bullets, appropriately enough, reloading
with each slurred manifesto—well I can preach too: alcohol turns
even the most profound into raging douchebags
She will find me a rival and equal to any man. Especially her man. Or maybe her friend’s man.
I’m an American, I’m free to party, fuck your towers,
its not cheating if no one finds out.
It will be Yankee doddle dandy baby.
It’s just too loud, and what if the cops come, you know? They would come. Well, the noise and the music on the terrace, you know? Terraces are very public places. I think we should leave, like, right now. It’s been fun but, but what about the cops? You don’t understand, I will literally be disowned…
I often wonder if I could seduce the policemen who arrive to break-up parties.
Parties, like religious gatherings and one-night stands, reach a perceptible apex,
then quickly decline; it’s noticed by all, but rarely commented on.
Let’s escape then, let’s make moves, let’s go to St. Marks, I’m belligerent enough
another hour of fun. Then let us begin again, another party, another terrace.
It never has to end.
Chronicles of parties are epic tales in their own right, in a certain context.
All I want is to feel outside of myself,
like anybody more interesting,
like someone who is famous or on drugs
or the absolute life of the party.
I didn’t get invited.
SM Nov 2010
