Monday, September 15, 2014

The Goodbye Hug

It was just a little goodbye hug
that didn’t want to say goodbye.
So it braved becoming a quick peck
on the cheek before dragging its lip
into a very light nibble that slid
all the way down as a hungry nuzzle
in the tender crook of her neck. There
is where it turned mutual and sultry,
making its way through firmly pressed
and fully responsive bodies, hushed
moans, heavy breaths, and indiscreet
caresses at the outskirts of public propriety.
A few seconds later, it turned into a rush
of holding hands searching for the closest
private place to become hard wet kissing
and never really saying goodbye again.




Boston Literary Magazine - Fall 2014

Crying for Three Straight Hours

Gives you one hell of a headache
and all different kinds of wet soak your shirt.

The sounds you make move across the mournful spectrum
from wails and moans to curses and howls.

You sit up, lie down, hunch, go completely fetal,
even try kneeling.

It starts shortly after twilight turns deep-cave black,
when you’d normally be surrounded by people

you’d always assumed would always surround you.
At somewhere between knife-to-your-wrist and gun-to-your-head,

when your throat is so sore it sounds like rug burn,
you stand, turn off the over-and-over-again of that one song,

stagger into the bathroom, splash water onto your puffy red face

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

The Shortest Distance Between the Water and the Bridge

Technicolor premonitions
of losing all your breath
in the echo of a hollow cell
that startles you awake panting
to one sweaty dawn after another.

Watching brown spots multiply
every time you piss vinegar
at the speed of gravity as if
you can’t remember ever feeling
the fuzzy crush of a peach
against your lips or the juice of it
leaking from the corners of your mouth.

Taking bites from a bologna sandwich
you slapped together four hours ago
in the Wonder-bread darkness
that hugs you goodbye
every morning.

Fading with the shade
of a few tall trees. Hearing children
screaming from swings. Turning your back
against all that noise.



San Pedro River Review - Fall 2014

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Independence Day

It was all girl-power
and hauling furniture
from Dependence to Liberation,

right up until the sky began sprinkling
and all three of them hit the mirror
asking, “Is my hair starting to frizz?”




The Homestead Review - Fall 2014

Fear

kissed her whiskey-wet
along the tingling bend
of her neck, wrapped
around her narrow waist
as she arched her back
against her better judgment,
slipped inside her shirt, felt
her nipples confess to wanting
his whiskey mouth and chaser tongue
to take the long way around
the tasting of her trembling body.



The Homestead Review - Fall 2014

No One's Going to Freeze to Death Inside This Man's Cave

After an hour or so of crumpling newspaper,
teepeeing kindling with plumb-bob precision,
and gently breathing coals into a near-sensual
glow, the house turns hot as a Norwegian sauna.

Forced to open every door and window wide
to the frostbitten world beyond our threshold
just so we can inhale again, we eventually find
relief from the curative effects of a moist-heat sweat.

My country-born wife can keep the woodstove
mellow and lightly-stoked all week long until fire
reverts to its natural owner (man) on Saturday.
Truth be told, I suspect it was actually a woman

who discovered how to make fire (on purpose).
Probably trying to figure out how to do something
different with leftover mammoth. I don't know.
Here's what I do know: it's 25 outside, 92 inside.

And, although I've knelt before my wife and begged
her sweet indulgence for this ridiculous swelter,
secretly I am beating my fists against my hairy chest,
grunting at the gods after my rising up to conquer cold.




The Homesteady Review - Fall 2014