Companion pieces

The night before the last

He pretends not to notice me
wiping my ass every day,
like we both ignored the wild dancer’s breasts.
Blue/red/green lighted globes consuming sight,
my body hyper-aware, yet entirely unfeminine.

I wanted to be an object—
ultra-genderified—obscured—
desired and desiring, lost and dirty,
like the sticky club floor,
and the man beside me,
his faded shirt hiding a small gut,
awakening a hate of his familiar face.

We met in a cleaner club,
the perfect pop song sang,
the choreographed good life,
a shining mold of draining day to night
as our eyes stay glued to the raw sex
lost on intimate bodies
that share a bathroom and a mind,
that walking home half-heartedly argues
about the Existence of god,
the evening a parade of adult life,
intellectual space between animals only.


single sunday

breakfast of bagels with butter
and please melty swiss cheese;
coffee rings on the fat paper’s front page
that will never be read
with edges burnt by cigarette ash
as the tabby purrs at the famous spring morning
that only smiles in the eyes of twentysomethings
facing the week in robe-ready style.