On– Pool Table Sex


Twisting the cue ball like something that could be


Like a doorknob to a place you’re too fucking

Young for

There is heavy breath rippling out like it hadn’t yet

Found its center

Shaping, shifting back, back, back like origami

Folding over corners to pasting sweat-less clothing back

Moments hoarded together, unwisely

Oaky, painted back over, grimy

The sturdy platform of green, strong-legged, whole

Make the un-whole whole while they’re making love on your


No, not making love, having sex, because it is just sex

Then there is cloth covering skin

Covering intention and truth

And he says the parts of me who’ve never seen


Are paler than the cue ball


What Does It Take To Be A Writer?


You need to put your life through a silver strainer and keep the

Bad stuff where it can get you.

You have to force yourself to struggle

Re-fuse the pain

You have to put that pain inside of your pillowcase,

And doze upon its texture, figure if it’s

Wet, or ribbed, or jagged.

You must cling to things that won’t support you:

Fragile, temporary things.

You must sleep with those things and obsess over those things,

Even when they go away.

You need to break the bones in your brain until you don’t have sense.

and then you must sit, or stand, or sprawl

And hold something loosely in your hand as if you have no control

If no words come to you?


You must write and write

Millions of letters every day

And you must read what you write.

And look at things and say, Hmmm.

Girl With Beautiful Legs


Hello, girl with beautiful legs

You are speech and peace and regret and soft

You are the window world between wise willow wings

You are between the shoulder blades of everything

And you sit there, and sink there

And wonder forever.

You think about orange and hatred and fingers

And you hear about lovers and kiss all their hands

Like I love you, I love you, and I need you home

You wiggle and wander and fiddle and find

And it’s over and under and prying at clothing

Like come off of me, come off of me

And then it does.

And you cry for it.

Sometimes he peels it off of you and styles your hair behind your neck

Holds you under water, beats you, keeps you in check

Like the man with dark fists, purple lips, and aggression

Lifts you with one hand, questions your every intention

Looks through your drawers for the bills he can’t find

Then turns you towards the door and hits you from behind

Puts you out in the water that patters from up under

The clouds where they morph back into white for the summer