“That’s exactly what I said, my dear,” said she.
She permitted herself the little endearment now and then with an ironical inflection, as one fearful of being robbed might show a diamond pretending that it was paste. – E. Nesbit, The Incomplete Amorist, 1906
can’t you ever just
for once fucking
come out and say
what you mean and
mean what you say?
do you even have a heart
under all those cries
of wolf, wolf, looking
for your Little Red
Riding Hood? or does a
clockwork ticker beat
itself to death inside
your Tik-Tok chest?
fee, fie, foe, fun. I
smell the blood
of a charlatan.
you feel spurned
by the ocean, by the spume
of waves crashing down
all sea-glass-colored, and
the dangling hands
of seaweed in the pale green
light of the oncoming
breaker hanging open
with no one
to grasp them.
you feel rejected
by the moon and
by the stars, alone
out there
on the beach.
I didn’t expect
to go home alone
tonight, that’s all.
it’s fine, I don’t mind,
it’s all good. I’m waiting
for the train, drunk
and wearing my
jukebox dress. I
have to pee. I
just missed
the train. I left
my book at home
because I didn’t expect
to go home alone
tonight.
my love is a candle-flame,
not a bonfire. it
won’t blaze up and burn us
both to ashes,
but slowly, steadily go
down its little wick
to keep us company
in the dark
until the wax is gone.
then hopefully
I’ll keep it safe
in a new candle
we’ve built
to receive it.
last night at dinner I was rude
to you. and then later, at home,
you were rude to me.
turnabout is fair play,
I guess.
you said you respect me,
but your eyes and your behavior
belied it. I thought I
respected you, but
my actions, too, told
a different story.
I.
the plants do not
abandon the earth
with the absence
of the sun. they
merely wait patiently
for the next season
to flourish again.
II.
as the second child
of a capricious father,
I learned from my mother’s fate
not to depend on the
kindness of kings.
I’m not chain smoking, but
I could be. I wonder what
will become of me, of us.
can your abundant love
fill the void in my soul
that I usually stuff
with m&m’s and rum
and weed and shrooms
and whatever feelings
I can get my hands on?
I.
the scab on my arm that
won’t heal. my ability
to leave well enough
alone.
II.
“you have interesting hands,”
you said. “if by ‘interesting’, you mean
‘ugly’, then sure,” I replied.
that was our first date
only in retrospect.
I.
weeds wave gaily
on the 14th St exit
from the FDR Drive.
my heart has abandoned
all those feelings that
no longer serve me.
II.
that deeply
annoying hum
in the background;
the moth that flutters
and suddenly dive bombs;
the stench of hot
garbage on steaming
concrete streets;
a persistent panhandler;
oh, you’re still here?
R. Brookes McKenzie 