Selflessly Swearing Off Saints

Too many poems I’ve written start with “I”,
which could be the downfall of my art, for
too much about myself is splayed like one’s
arms and legs as they slide face down across
a slick floor, after falling so many times
for the same types of people, over and over,
never learning from stupid mistakes, ignoring
nervous ticks and strange hair or crooked gazes,
or, or even the tone of their sneaky voices.
I was never really good at telling people to
fuck off because of spoon fed manners, being
told that it wasn’t “lady like” and that I
would “offend” everyone with that vernacular.
These day, I seem to care less about what
those others think or feel, because giving
them that kind of control over me is rude.

Never Forgotten

It feels like a lifetime
since we steamed up your
car windows with our heat,
only to say goodbye after
you found out I was taken.
Maybe you moved on and
found another who could
replace everything you
ever felt in those stolen
moments, in black of night,
under the streetlights.

(For RP)

Artfully Longing

Like hard winds from the north
Rushing upon and through all
sensibility and promise, ache
with need to touch, to caress
with lips and teeth and tongue.
Enveloped in entwined essences
with limbs braided in passion,
the vision fades to blue, then
grey, and finally to black…
Nothing will come of this, but
if even an ounce of emotion was
present in this presence, then
it will never be for naught.

(For BWIII)