The air shivers
Like my cellulite.
Water echoing in humid ribbons;
In your black and blue
Wound like the gods eyes of my ancestors
With sky-string and snowflakes.
After the half-dead turning of my eyes-
The cheap chardonnay leaf that undies
A little more every year;
Shine black to brown to green/red
Like a bruise when it ages,
You rent those blue white snowman crystals
From my blood.
Because before I ever saw sleet,
Or cut my feet on the concrete with Thu,
Or learned to recognize the smell of human urine
On the side of Harold’s Chicken Shack on Wabash Avenue,
My great grandmothers’ thousand-degree hands
In redgreen darkness
Without the individualistic beauty
So often paper-cut in kindergärten
By tiny Arian hands.
With the help of 100% UV ray protection
And a few more prescriptions,
My eyes would sparkle, too
(but eventually melt-
to get rid of this contusion confusion.
If you touched me,
Your hands would peel off.
And turn as prune water white
As they were boiling black in that
Sunday morning dream I had
While you slept on my floor,
Sobering in flannel.
It’s that brain shake inhalant deleriousness
That keeps our pupils black as Kiwi®.
Our sex would require dry-cleaning fluid.
Pre-powdered gloves, and muscle,
Whereas our sex needs only
And a lint-free cloth.
You would stain,
Riding that dangerous electricity which dictates that
The shortest distance between two points
Is really more of a Loop
Than a straight line.
Compare our honeycomb lip gloss sex
To our sex
Which smells like dirt
And when you accidentally vacuum the fringe on the rug.
Like eating tar.
Are you willing to let you tongue suffocate?
Would you clog your Edward Norton mouth
Just to shake the air into stillness-
So our spirits would be quiet
And the hum in the air would SHUT UP. ?
You fondle my mind
As gently as a soft-shoe buffing cloth.
If you even looked at me,
In that hospital warmth,
We would both be
Two pieces of coal
And a wet spot on the carpet.