Ho-hoI am Santa's laughter; mirthful, bearded.Ho!I chuckle down your chimney,creeping low, dragging cheer like a burden behind me.I am Santa's laughter; lurking, sleuthing.Ho!Find me in your stocking, diamond peals and rough titteration.I am Santa's laughter; forced, and contrived.A blue-eyed thief tickled me from the belly of a rich Turk,whose pockets guffawed at the jingle of coins,meant for good little whores, to save them from boys.I am Santa's laughter; you know me well.Ho!Cookie crumbs cacchinate as spoilt milk slides across split sides;Santa cannot resist.
WIP UntitledI loved the wolf, who was a manwho loved the bird, that fluttered in my chestboisterous, beatific, blindtrapped deep in the rib cagedark as a coal minebe free, canarysaid the manbeat, beat, beat twittered the birdhold fast growled the wolf,th man's teeth upon the nape.Canary soar hard up the red ribbon channel,freedom on my last exhalebeat, beat, beat,the canary twitters into the mouth of the man,of the wolf who loved me
What Homer Never SaidOh, Muse!He's a romantic! Let's give him dark, so starry eyes,at night he writes of her soft breasts,sinking ships, planes, hearts.It is winter, without her warm skin, soft,what secrets shall he leak, without her slender,charcoal stained fingers pressed to his mouth?He longs for the day, when they will be unitedas one, as more than one,four legs,four arms,two hands shall meet for the first time,two mouths shall sigh, "Finally."He's a romantic, and she's just a drifter;her fingers smell of tobacco ashesShe only knows how to draw a boy with supernova eyes. She draws lands cold and unknown, and her sighs are heavy-likethe Lusitania.She drifts to his warmth, the romantic's, his uneasy warmth.How long will it last, she doubts, aching for his words.two tongues, four eyes, one black lung and a troubled soul;it shall all converge.
Who do you want to forget? 5Your dad shook my hand,and held me tight for an odd amount of seconds, the night of your funeral.It started as a handshake,his fingers curling around mine, my finger rubbing against his wedding band--strong arms wrapping around my somber frame,and he shook me,as if to wake me.As if to remind me,you wouldn't be back; Caroline wails in the background, "It's not right. It shouldn't have mattered."He sobbed in my freshly oiled hair to thank me for knowing you.And even though, I knew it would be a closed casket,the bullet chewing through your skull in closed captioningI wore a low cut shirt,to remind you of what you'd never need again.
Who do you want to forget? 4Attempt #4In a love song,I am not, yet Papa,you brought home a hooker with my name.A friend,you called her, and she looked younger than my mother.She had long fake nails,they curved and bent to an acrylic rhythm.Her mouth was outlined in black,eyebrows thin, breasts high.She was born with a stick of gum in her mouth,stuffed between her cheeks,each syllable popping, bottom lip dipping low, jaw grinding,Her neck followed the pattern of her enunciation, "Hey ba-beh, hey." She stooped down low,I stared at her big bright yellow toenail,sticking out of her stilettos. She lowered herself to all fours, before laying flat on her belly,to look me in the eye,"Oh, you look just like your daddy."She gave a big smile, her mouth open,welcoming me to count her gold teeth.If I knew the words then, as I know them now,I'd have axed her if she was the reason my parents never married.
Who do you want to forget? 3Attempt #3Spiky tufts of blond hair,your little diamond earring.Your eyes matched the bright blue rubberbands on your braces--they took my breath away. I wore bright blue sports bras,and tried to run for miles, got a few blocksstarted wheezing, and needed my inhaler. Guys, wait up.Cuzin's best friend, and I don't like you.(Just your smile.)We're the same, wedgie on Monday, I'll chase you on Tuesday,I rented you at recess:dodgeball, kickball, soft ball, and we caught catepillars (they'll evolve, you said.)One of the guys,did your breasts ache, too? One of you,I won't cry if you hit me. I won't.Cuzin told you I had so many barbies,no, no, no.Cuzin told you I still baked mudpies(with the Tonka trucks, and plastic pails.)Cuzin told you I thought you were cute,had your name in all my notebooks--death, come swift.You looked rather offended, yet still patted my backwhen our catepillars died.