There are some things people say
that I shall forthwith deny,
like:

I am not a poetry person.
I am in love but generally a forgetful person.
It's too late to think about these things and
I need my sleep.
I do not say sorry, because I am not
a sorry person.
How many lovers have you had? How many people have you slept with?
(I shall appreciate if they differentiate but
I shall deny nonetheless)

There are some things people say
that cannot be denied
nor accepted, for the sheer fragility
of veracity, like:

It is not necessary to love like this.
I am in love but am not compatible with this person.
I am a mother who named my son Abraham, or Noel, or Paul;
They will be good men.

There are things I shall say
and say and say and say and
will not deny myself, like:

I cannot be in love with anyone, because I am
already in love with love.
I will die a woman who has made love to the world.

How to not have an affair.

First and foremost, do not pick someone with a physical feature you immediately dislike. Let's get real here, vamos al fuckin grano, don't lower your standards in any way. Because the last thing you want is to stand in the street, smoking a cigarette and thinking, "I couldn't even make a short man love me." But then again, don't pick a picturesque lover. Because that's what you'll be left with: pictures of their black curls mixing with the feathers of cheap down pillows, delicate tableaux of their wide unnameable blue eyes thinking of other people they wish you were. In fact, remember that a successful affair is the seduction of self. When you mount their body, consider the act an essential dance, your way of healing yourself from the lover before who made you feel less than. Note the thighs, firm and biblical, an ancient bequeathing of generations. The sharp collarbones, at once fashionable and tragic. No! Not theirs. Yours. And for gods sake, don't laugh during. Balzac said, "Happiness is the beauty of womanhood, as clothes are it's disguise." True enough, but let us not confuse this with the caustic notion that a woman without clothes is a joyful one. Put your clothes back on and smoke a cigarette, always in that order. You are tired enough after making love, so don't give this lover the opportunity to change what you smoke by rolling you a cigarette or lighting one of theirs. Even worse, to smoke their cigarette and fall asleep with a lover who deems it appropriate to hold one another in slumber. You may sleep together like sick expats in a freezing German city. Finally warm. And so easy do we mistake inertia for homecoming in these moments. Not asking you to leave does not signify the desire for your presence. 
Surely your lovemaking will reek of the primordial, for even the most gentle affair is a union o utility. Cover your nose diligently when encountering this lover's musk, all wet bark and rough salt. You will find yourself on a dank cobblestone street in Madrid, or among rotting fruits in a makeshift market, perhaps nose in a mug of steaming cider, and the irrepressible fact that you will never smell something quite like this lover again will snack on your innards like the worm in a tequila bottle. And you're in real trouble if you spray their blankets with your perfume when they aren't looking. If you're at that point, they've already won. They couldn't give half a fig about smelling you later on. 
More on this primordial state. We may be a global culture which now values convenience, but god damn does this affair remind you that we were hunter-gatherers, beings which crave steady hands and able minds. Therefore do not allow this lover to teach you a skill, particularly one which will make you feel capable or, worse yet, more poignant. They may, for instance, teach you to roll cigarettes. Congratulations, now your only respite and that yellow fragile halo on your finger pay constant tribute to a private craftsman. 
To ask a lover about past affairs is the juvenile move of a sadomasochist. You deserve whatever lashings their former lovers unassumingly whip upon your gut. The older we get, the more people there were before you who mattered more than you ever shall. The older we get, the more crowded your little DDR-issue sized bed becomes. Seal your wounded eyes, instead, with those long amorous lashes and use their pelvis for it's god-given purpose. I suppose it's best to keep any knowledge to a minimum. The first indication of a broken heart is basting trivialities with the grease of universal significance. They will have your favorite poet on their shelf and your favorite parent's favorite record. 
Never have a soundtrack. Your affair is not a grainy bildungsromanian classic that deprived fathers will watch, missing that sweet college girl they passed up for your lined and unkind mother. That song is not saying what your lover doesn't know how to. If it's true that their very fingernails ache for your tongue, those words will be said. They will be surely said. They will not follow you to Poland, they will not miss that plane, they will not look up the secret song you only listen to sobbing in the corner of the shower and then learn to play it on the guitar. Like it or not, like it or not. 

It is an inevitability that a writer, or any artist, shall love their subject. What part of this sentence is worth explaining? Perhaps the "shall." I may, any writer may, pick the most loathsome subject fathomable, and shall come to love it. I caress the hated thing, I place the negligible bump on the tip of my middle finger upon its widow´s peak or curls or shaved head and run it down, down its cheekbones, the rims of its ears, the collarbones, the ribcage, those beautiful and sharp bones defining the hips (or across its sweaty rotund paunch, as it may be), in between the webs of its toes. I fuck its daughters and sew with its mother. I search, with quiet insistence, for the watch it wears. And I am a woman, so anything I spend enough time with, I shall love. And then I shall love it until I perish or I shall love it until I suffocate it with ink and leave it in the trash like a baby from the 90s, from sheer boredom, from the shall of loving it too much. I will be a woman who has fucked the world. Being my lover has nothing to do with touching my body, but letting my pen touch yours.

were women to listen
to the murmurs of men
perhaps the swinging stalls
in our guts could
become shelves
lined with books
lined with lines
which do not cause lines
around our eyes but
rather the line across
the hand which says
her life lingered in love, not
she died of love and

were women to listen
to the murmurs of men
perhaps the marvelous
compartments of a woman's heart
filled with balloons
which inflate themselves
and never burst in fits
of ecstatic rushes
maybe the compartments
would melt from the
eery resemblance of a
bathroom stall and
more
much much more
like
chandelier prisms.

do you hear the
glass whispering?

Feedback Loop

“I’ve lost my faith,” she said.

Not even the curls on his head moved. He was completely still. She wondered if he was dead. Of course, he wasn’t, but her head always went there with loved ones. If her mother didn’t bless the day with some incessant nagging or advice her head went there. When her roommates in college wouldn’t come home for the night. And so forth. But with him, especially, she always wondered if he was dead.

He sighed. The smell of the air told her so. When her parents would wake up in the morning, she would sit with them at the breakfast table and held her breath. The smell of married couples. The same pajamas, week after week; not brushing your teeth before the other woke up, maybe going half the day that way until leaving the house. Stale, overripe. His breath was clean, full of pheromones. She had read that every mouth has its’ own chemistry. You could be completely enamored with someone’s appearance, but kiss them and the attraction would be gone. With the wrong chemistry, of course.

He had refused to kiss her for days. Before they first went to dinner, he would only walk her to the edge of campus after class. Her skin itself would hurt when he’d say, “Later, tiger!” and bike away. One evening, he walked her home and she asked him in for tea. He sat on her heavy red futon and she brought him her books. The mating dance of nerds, really. She sat on the lifted floorboards, looking up at him, telling him strange stories about this author, that poem. She knew these things worked with men like him for two reasons. One, because so many men like him had proposed marriage to her already. Two, because she was convinced he was to be hers. Only some weeks and he was already the line by which she drew the world.

When he decided that it was appropriate to kiss, he did just that. She held his breath in her mouth so long, it felt as if chili peppers were being rubbed into her lungs. Later, he told her that her breath sometimes smelled bad when they had first met.

“On the metro today, I heard a man call the woman he was with ‘my love’. I cried in our closet for an hour.”

He turned his head away from her. He had a cherub’s face, young and clean. He couldn’t grow a beard. Cheeks redder than apples. When she had taken him home for the first time, her mother asked him if he was from the Ozarks. He looked like a child from fresh mountain air, she reasoned. He wasn’t, though. He was from a small town with a funny name in a state she had never been to. She hated his parents.

Her mother said she could always foretell how a man would treat her. She only needed to learn about his relationship with his mother. Before they went to bed, at his house, he and his mother would sometimes talk on the phone. They spoke often and he responded to her inquiries gently. He would end the call by saying, “Love you, too.” That part, she didn’t like. The “I” part was what mattered.

But that’s how she now knew about the hopelessness of it all. She felt like the finches in her parents’ backyard. Her mother had hung up a bird feeder one spring and, beside it, placed a cement bird bath. A diligent woman: she woke up every morning, rolled her shiny black hair in those notorious red curlers, and smoked her secret cigarette of the day in the backyard. The bird bath and feeder, then, were her excuse to be back there in the first place. And they came, the finches. Shrieking feathered thimbles with puffed chests. Her mother placed duck tape over the light switch for the back patio, because one finch had built a nest on top of the light. Every day they came.

Her mother started hating the shells left behind, scattered on the concrete patio and pasted there with finch poop. She stopped feeding them entirely, except for some days when she felt guilt or a particular variety of matronly. It didn’t matter, either way. The finches came every day, from the moment her mother hung up that bird feeder until the last time she had been back to visit. Her mother told her, in a sad voice, that sometimes the finches became so angry they would fly toward the house, breaking their beaks on the clean windows. The birds’ feelings didn’t matter, though. They came back, every day. For the moment when the maybe became a full vessel of nourishment.

“I don’t want what we have.”

He shifted, straightening his back. She reached out her fingers, ready to rub his spine, stopping just short of his skin. When they found out he had scoliosis, she went outside and cried while smoking a cigarette. He denied it, but she knew that sort of display made him uneasy. They had gotten into the shower before bed and she looked at his shoulder blades. One higher than the other. She liked tall men, because of her father’s height, so she knew that tall men held themselves awkwardly. Shoulders rounded forward, chin a bit tucked in. He was holding himself more vertically than she had ever seen and, indeed, there was a curve. Slight, but enough that he felt uncomfortable every day she had known him. He was tilting his head back, wetting his hair, mouth open to catch the stream. She stood at the end of the tub, shivering. Every few minutes she would place her hands on his chest to catch some of the warmth.

His skin seemed a paper towel, covered with grains of salt and flakes of pepper. Rough bumps everywhere, some as white as his own skin, some a furious red. She had whispered once that it was her favorite part of him. He was surprised and asked why. She responded that it made him a more visceral experience. Any lover can guess the real reason why, though.

She pressed a hand to her stomach. Nausea always battered her intestines at this hour. Breathing shallowly, she reached over to the desk for the pink bottle of bismuth. A chalky swig. She spilled a drop or two on the carpet and rubbed them out with her toe quickly, furtively glancing at him over her shoulder. Some nights she spent on her knees, hugging the stem of the toilet. It was always a shame when that happened, and perhaps not coincidentally when she was the one who made dinner. When they had gotten together, she was hungry all the time. Their dinner dates were often the first time she would eat that day. She did love her body, it wasn’t that; it was just as if her physical needs were a broken leather sole. As long as her shoes got her around.

He started feeding her every time they were together. People didn’t stop her on the street as often, telling her to eat more. She rarely stated a preference, because she had no idea what could be made at home. Anyway he was a bit of a food snob. She was fine with mayonnaise and he made his own aioli, that sort of thing. Only once did he mess up. He bought a cut of goat meat. He later told her that an old woman in the butcher shop asked what he was buying. When he answered “Goat,” she widened her eyes and started cackling. She wished him good luck and walked out, swinging her bags and shaking her head. Stubborn as always, more motivated by this (she could guess), he bought it nonetheless and prepared it that night. They had eaten the first few bites slowly, glancing up at one another shyly. She regally, gently, pronounced it shit. He gallantly threw the gamey morsels away and scooped her some ice cream for dinner.

“You’re ice. Really, you are. If a girl ever stays with you, it’s either because she doesn’t care about you or really doesn’t give a shit about herself.”

It seemed that tonight he couldn’t be bothered. She absently stared past his head, running her bony finger over her face, sometimes her cracked lips, stopping to poke at her chipped front teeth. Shivering, pulling the blanket over her legs, she continued to stare out the window. A crowd of young Spaniards walked by, her age, probably just leaving dinner. She used to stay up late, too, but he had work in the morning. The condition was that they could only sleep in the same bed if they turned in early. He exhaled, snoring a little. She turned off the light and lay down, face in pillow.

Oh water water on my sea,
If I say, yes, if I say
That I am not for you
Then, know no lack of love
Of mine pushed me from your bed.

Your love is steeper than
A whim of a woman can climb into.
You are the line by which
I draw the world.

These downward twirling feathers
Are only savage caricatures
Etched in charcoal, a muffled sketch
White threads hugging a stick
Without your mind to set them on fire!

My blankets wear the calligraphy of
Your ink, my poems written by
Our drying dried juices.
There's no almond to be shelled here,
A white lady soaked free of her brown frock.

Water water on my sea.

satnight

my body boogied with everyone
but you tonight and
my lashes quick picked up
young pretty boys they hardly
knew before they were ensconced
softly secure in my venus fly trap
and while my breasts were busy saluting and
the fleecey street lamps dropped gold dust and hops
became the perfume of the dance floor and the
move that shook the warped wood
solipsism shimmied from my eye shimmered down my cheek
and fell on her fucking face right in
the middle of the place so trembling
clumsy
(and when i look at her from behind
what happens dear is shes all turned around
like a pinwheel in the hot wind that blew all night
shes all turned around
all that ,is,,, you)

apple cheeks

i am small when i fold under
the weight of your regal discipline
i am no classic in my antique imitation
skirts and stockings
garters and corsets there
i go trying to lure you again baby blue
it's just that you are the king
of my genesis dreams i think if i heard
love waft from those peculiar long lips
like stacks of string sweetly lingering
on my hair i am sure i could not discern what you
were saying everything you utter unto me is
so
crisp

boy you are such a Boy
look at you with cheeks bloom bitten and crimson like
Doctor just clapped air into your lungs with that slap on the ass like
a grown-ass-man would know to give in loving you just
cannot be nasty you are not weathered aw look its little
boy lost sitting under the university oak tree reading bland poetry

look, your gaping baby blues might be sweet if the gaping
gap between what you see and what humanity (with its bituminous
steel-toed boots it polishes every moment) struts around economical
as cheap shoelaces free condoms the going rate of american soul just sayin’
your ecclesiastic eagerness helps as well as that dollar you gave that junkie
helped stick vapor up his heart

christ you are such a Boy
look at that tummy bulging with sweets and dinner you
made me call me your girl and that’s supposed to clear
libertinage from a straight up death goddess demimonde you
still think your heart levels the brambles of me like a fire please
your intentions are akin to those tedious callouses

i mean you look this certain stirring way when you
compare your insides to our outsides only to find all of us
lacking but sea level most of all and when this happens your
mouth purses so we will kiss you thickly pouring into your immensity
like one thought can, i mean you know better than to sleep there

your boyhood embarrasses boys
everywhere who would look at my tits when i place them on
a platter like this but you are too busy with bloomsday questions you
consider stark like the absence of absence or how to maintain your
autonomy in the throes of passion jesus just be lascivious for a second
get hard in my hands take shape like you can oh boy

you are the Only man.

decline of the western civilization (adoration): downfall circa 1945

sheet the sheet darling the sheet
pull the sheet over our arching bodies
and make sure the sheet falls under the comforter
you more comfortable knowing that the sheet
protects the comforter from our juices, the sheet
prevents you from washing the bulkier of the two, i know
you more ready to break open my pearls make them weep
as long as sweaty dust is caught by that sheet

cocaine new year's eve darling it's only an evening
slide the gauze over the distance between our bodies
and cradle this agnostic embryo into an opiate of eggshells
you self righteous knowing that the problem
of addiction encloses my dry night, your life
your cavalier boyhood prevents remembering, i know
you more ready to bend your elbow close that arm's distance
as long as i'm the only one with thirst around here