Tuesday, April 22, 2014

April 19th


Somewhere outside of Albuquerque, I was all fed
up with the stories about your ex-girlfriend’s
Guess billboard in New York City, and to make
matters worse, I had pee like a racehorse, or
like a girl who’d had too much to drink way
too far away from home. You stopped at a friend’s
body shop to talk about a buddy who was stuck
some place in Mexico. You were talking pulling
strings and taking pulls off a brown bottle, and no
one told me where the restroom was, so I walked,
back to where the hotrods were displayed like dogs
ready for a fight, baring their grills like teeth.
I was hungry, the air smelled like hot gasoline
and that sweet carnation smell of oil and coolant.
A girl pitbull came and circled me as I circled 
the cars; she sniffed my ankles like I was her kin 
or on some kinda rescue mission. You were still 
talking, not a glance in the direction of me 
and the bitch working our ways around 
the souped-up corvettes and the power tools. 
The pit was glossy, well-cared for, a queen 
of the car shop, and when she widened 
her hind legs and squatted to pee all over 
one of the car’s  dropped canvases, I took it 
as a challenge. That strong yellow stream seemed 
to be saying, Girl, no one’s gonna tell me 
when to take a leak, when to bow down, 
when not to bite. So, right then, in the dim lights 
of the strange garage, I lifted my skirt and pissed 
like the hard bitch I was.

Monday, April 21, 2014

April 18th

Objects of Desire

The leaky sink’s last drip, the broken
washer’s bump, the busted car, the rusted
hubcaps, the rotted clothesline stakes,
the cat that bathes in the gravel, the spot
in the bed that I’ve grooved deep with my tosses,
the rain, the rain, the petals that the tree loses.
I’m like the old objects. The stone in the driveway,
the barn’s rooftop, the watcher who wants you
to roll in slow, to see what you do without me.