Blake

Everything became hot,
dizzying
like tequila shots,
when I found you
in that white cup
filled thick
with a stew of blood.
Cuts like blackberry stains.
I tried every recipe I knew
mouth to mouth, hand to chest,
nothing...

On my bookshelf,
your 8 x 10 youth sits
on a schoolyard bench
long like a cutting board.
Hair, spiked sparks
of asparagus,
melon-smooth face
cast down
to the yeast of the earth.
You're wearing your favorite
orange t-shirt
glazed black
with the words,
"Mean People Suck"

Beneath blueberry sheets
and stainless steel framework,
scavenging for lost change
I uprooted a harvest of pinups.
Adolescent boys,
in silver jackets,
leather pants.
Lips caught mid flattery,
thumbs approvingly up.
Gold chains
around their popstar perfect necks.

I wouldn't accept that
those boys
were part of your bedtime stories
or a midnight snack.
I didn't like
the spoiled taste of them
in my head
or the aftertaste of you
eating them
with your eyes,
one hand in your underwear.
So I ignored you,
stopped
surprising you with coco
snowcapped with cream.

I have not
been in your room
since you stopped rising fresh
like bread every morning.
I just can't digest
your self-portrait
an acrylic abstraction,
hung crooked over your bed.

I starved you of attention
only to preserve you
in a brass halo
forever in that orange shirt
your smile
cutting through me
like a sickle.

©Bear

Chronology Of A Friday Night

Teenage girls would say he was
"greasy" or "gross".
He was very thin and bony
with ample amounts of gel and cologne
wearing a pink polo shirt.
The type of man who thinks he's hiding
his lustful stares and drool caked lips,
but stands out like captain obvious.
The type of person
I wouldn't trust alone with my cat.

I understand the consequences
of taking your shirt off your sweaty chest and hips
moving like pond ripples to techno music;
the resulting stares and fantasies that grow
from sexual desires.
But I never expected a hand on my ass
and an offer of $300 dollars
if I would "hump" him.
He wanted to be humped by me! Me! Can you believe it?!

I was floored and flattered that somebody found me
attractive sexually and worth $300
if only I could say the same for this
evolutionary mistake.

"I'm a virgin, I wouldn't be any good." I said
Upon my decline, the
"Name your price," line was used.
"Everybody has a price," he said.

One it has never been my life long dream to be a sex object
two my body is like every Van Goh painting, priceless
and three I had to wonder what kind of rabies
this little rodent was carrying that would force him
to have to pay for sex,
luring some innocent young person into his bed
for I should mention
he thought I was in this bar illegally.

Also it amazes me how fast I can turn flattery
into self loathing and whining.
Why do I only attract older men?
Why don't any young guys ask me for sex
or even socialize with me at all?
Why am I only wanted for sex?
Why? Why? Why?

The dollar amount jumped from $300
to $1,000.
I removed the planted palm from my rear
walking away doing what I do best...
Rejection.

©Bear

Firestarter

I will light myself on fire
like that nine year old on Oprah who,
learning from a television show, sprayed
bug spray on his arm and popped open a lighter.
When his shirt caught fire his friends laughed
as he ran into the pool burned to the third degree.
He was a kid, stupid and didn't know any better.

But I know. That there will be smoke.
That I will start to stink and blacken
like campfire wood. I know it will hurt
just like that monk in Vietnam who doused
himself in protest knew. He became famous.
People took pictures.

I'll be famous too, igniting my body in protest
of myself, to defy my mind, to revolt against the heart
and all it's lustful trappings.
It won't be suicide nor sacrifice.
I'd compare it more to a python shedding it's skin.
Burning old layers to reveal new ones.

©Bear