She, a strange landlord,
pointed to her chest and said
‘If you lived here
you’d be home by now.’
I, the stranger with no deposit,
pointed to my chest and said
‘If you lived here
you would have to be
I think of her smart hips
and the days left before their unhinging.
Our love was redder than the eyes of McCarthy.
Our love was blacklisted and strong.
Our love was a brawl in the street
with spectacles on.
Eyes of bayonet knives,
and the nunchakus of my mouth
which I tried to use with great aplomb and theatrical flash
but always ended up knocking myself unconscious.
'No, you don't look fat in that dress.
Yes, that sentence does assume you look
fat in some dresses.’
Kapow. Right in the face.
This love remains a tongueless boy
in a basement
that you snuck graham crackers to.
He loved to see the glaze
of your hammer-and-nail-polish.
You kept him alive.
He paid you with a finger every time you arrived:
One to clean your elfish ear.
to check your pulse.
an unbreakable Boy Scout oath.
so you could rest each one
of his loose fingers in between yours
like couples do when they stroll
through shitty carnivals.
When we first met
she told me of the brilliant in Israel
and the erotic vision of the cynic.
I tried to turn her on by talking to her about
She kept hunting for a metaphor.
I was actually just talking about skinning animals.
Now I can’t stop thinking of how our baby would look in a perm
with a massive elk for eyebrows
and then in comes the Tel Aviv
of her mouth of my dirty neck.’
Our mouths building a jangly, red swamp
they will call weirdo Louisiana.
This kiss spills her silent resume:
She is the poster child
for the Willy Wonka suicide camp.
Her stomach is a summer full
of black ice-cream-truck hijackings.
Her eyes are highway fatalities
you can’t stop staring at.
Her skin is rehab for sandpaper junkies.
She is my landlord
and she lowers the rent,
points to her chest and says,
"Man, if you lived here
you’d be home by now.”