A Conversation

“I remember you, Dyon, when you were nothin’ more than a lovesick little boy. Oh, look bored and exasperated all you please, but—you had a soul then, and you weren’t afraid of happiness—weren’t afraid to fight to be happy, with everything you had, against everything you-”

“Calla.” He’s rolling his eyes, his voice thick and heavy, dripping with spoiled honey-like impatience. “Is there a point to this? I’m busy, you know, a busy man with no time to walk down memory lane.”

“I’m busy too, damn busy taking care of Ashley. Protectin’ against your nonsense. ‘Cause I think you do have a soul, still, and you’re just too angry or sad or scared or bitter to believe it. Takes determination to last as long as we have, come back life after life… who you coming back for, huh?

“Not yourself. Not Scallion. Sure as hell not me.”

As usual in Red Calla’s fiery, engaging presence, Dyon keeps silent—the only way to keep ahold of his carefully constructed self.

“I’d bet half my hair and a redred flower the both of us come back for the same person. Huh. At least I know it, ain’t foolin’ myself with this reason or that.”

Bass String Hands

This is either the last or second-to-last poem before we return to our regularly programmed nonsense.  Have fun!

Bass String Hands

Bass string hands and German Shepard bones,
slap bass veins pulsing with guitar riff blood.
Skin like burnt sunshine, lines
at hipline, at kneecaps
winter sunshine thighs.

Vampiric resurrection as love
as acceptable solution (we said)
as fair trade; one blood for another,
one body for another, yes?
And I have this hunger,
and if I gnaw your hand
will I play, can I?

Bass string veins popping
from your bass string hands.
Small strung and coiled tight, caffeine high
and strawberry buzz.  Lips of smoke
hard, unyielding, drumbeat teeth
–bruise and mark, face-burn and chapped–
Excedrin-blue eyes,
your back like a mountain cave.
Misty Mountain Hop, hop tea, sublime blood
in your tiny wrists, high E string joints.
And I’m gonna love you, your hair
sun strings and a rumpled face.  I woke you without
touching,
touching,
touching,
touching your hair.

Corrugated bones
and the muscles are hard,
beneath my half-roughened
music pumping palms.
The muscles are hard, are hard,
a boulder buried in flame light.
The strawberries fall from lips like
an avalanche, a riff, like a van door
at my shoulder.
The strawberries float like
smoke and drop and die,
screaming solos.

Bass string hands and guard dog bones,
slap bass veins pulsing with guitar riff blood.
Flaming sunshine skin, lines divide at hips and knees.
Winter sunshine thighs.

Let’s Save The World! (It’s Valentine’s Day)

This is filler while I’m in Wisconsin. When I get back, I’ll be practically a doctor AND figure out what to do about Jimmy and Oscar, I swear.

Sheepishly,

Bargain Puppy

Let’s Save The World! (It’s Valentine’s Day)
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“Let’s save the world!
(It’s Valentine’s Day)”
I tell you all in one breath, misty mouths
between masked up faces.

Hardly legal Power Rangers
red, black, and green
stomping angry at the Ides of February.
Hard boots clanging with every step,
we leave a trail:
burning Hallmark cards
and graffiti on every storefront window
loudly proclaim
The Truth about Valentine’s Day.

Comic book tales
bloody saints
and Catholic killers,
all for a man who never did exist;
all for an imaginary martyr,
a composite,
a bishop, a priest, and an African killed.
Colonized cupids

Howland, Hallmark, and Richard’s favorite liar,
invented love birds and mass-produced doilies.
“Apple green lollipops and candy bracelets
will never spell my love for you,”

I whisper in a gasp,
sloppy makeouts hiding in a dumpster.

“Let’s save the world
from Valentine’s Day,
because Valen means worthy
and tine is a point on a fork.
So we’ll stab it in the heart.”

Darlin’

I’m gonna go have an exciting adventure for a few weeks, so enjoy some poems in the meantime.  I should be back about the time July is over.

-Bargain Puppy

Darlin’

My darlin’ with closed eyes,
fragile lashes.  Brushin’
willful blind eyes,
my fingers round cheeks.

Oh, darlin’, why can’t you see?
You can’t see,
you don’t-won’t,
you’re blind to all you do.

All you can see is those men,
but darlin’, darlin’, you’re so blind.
My darlin’,
those men ain’t got nothin’ on you;
& they can’t do nothin’
if you won’t say “yes.”

There may be monsters in your head,
but, darlin’, just ‘cause they’re there
don’t make ‘em right.
But you’re blind to that,
blind to what I see.

Please see what I say.
I’ll paint pictures with words if it will help,
but, darlin’, you must see, you…

You gotta see what I’m sayin’
before they eat you up inside.
You’re blind to all you do.

Please see what I say,
‘cause, darlin’, no one sees you like me.
The colors of my words, hangin’ between us like a fog
& I’m the only one who’s seein’ you, more’n a toy.
You can’t see that ‘cause all you see is me,
but, darlin’, that monster don’t know jack
’bout you or me & especially you
& you got to listen to somethin’ else for truth.

‘Cause I’m the only one who sees.