Bloody mary’s till after dawn
2 8 balls on the table
put everything on the table
a catholic on the corner pocket
make everything clear
an amber cross
drinking the sun
hiding patina
a kiss on the corner
of the jaw near street
across the cheek
before confession
booths close
blood tastes like copper
in the teeth on the knees
in first the pew
where even priests
start staring
at the crying
into grey beret
light leaks through colored mary
a red-faced Judas for sunday
they’re setting the altar
almost time to eat
rocks where holy water should be
Don’t Write Poetry
Wait until you’ve been burned.
It’s better to marry
the fire is your frame of reference.
And stop drinking.
pay no mind
and look out the television
when she eats spring
Or keep drinking
when she fights with time
pay no mind.
There’s nothing wrong with television
when she keeps you from drinking
Apply the cream
to decay under the collar
when she starts chewing
pay no mind
when she keeps drinking
and leaves behind secret
ions
Call Girl
When I think of T.V.s
I think of insects
Something about their antlers
when I think of deer
I think of the skin
that grows on their horns
like velvet
that is smashed and torn from fighting for the kind of love
that makes fake rabbits come to life
You can love me for my scars
What doesn’t kill you makes you less desirable.
The hard grey skin that forms where you’ve worn away the beauty
you were born with from over using
your softness turns to hardness quick and easy
and quit on wounded knees
insects and old T.V.s, my dear.
And come here, I’ve got another lamp for you
to quietly bear––don’t get bored––I’ve got another whore for you
to secretly love––one more chance to
get born again once more
to see the light of it all
to crawl away from it all. To get bored again
when she calls again.
