Do you need a ladder?

I’m falling in love with you
He says
But have you fallen yet
flat on your back
down to the bottom of the pit
Blood bursting out your mouth
A few ribs cracked
and you’re still laughing
smiling with thumbs up at me
like a tourist for a picture

Or are you coasting
The wind in your face
Still feeling immortal

I must be a good kisser

Let me tell you babes,
I speak several languages
so I must be a good kisser

Do you remember how hungry I was
for weeks
Unable to eat, to speak
Just waited to come home
and cry
Like I’d flip a switch
Like routine, a job, a time and a place

It didn’t matter then
if I could swipe my tongue
Left, Right
On the back of a bicep
In the runt of his asshole
It did not matter if my lips were
burning-dry from my own spit

Only what they all said
-you’re a charming girl
for a cold bitch
that kisses like a grave digger

Light up my face why don’t you
With a match
You look squinting
Hands half-way impulse to searching
No way; can it be
One second waif
the next in the fading fire
a sagging, purple bagged, demon’s wife

Wake up
Hung over
Hair stained with fingernails
You turn over
Without your glasses you think
Maybe…is it? A flicker of a dragon lady again
The same girl sprung in your bed
Lifted last night to the ceiling
Levitating with sing-song instead of the usual

I am by the radiator
soaking in the heat
Hands helping heavy arms
Sweating, heaving
Supporting myself through a hunch
Like I’m giving birth

I am throwing ash trays

I am throwing ash trays
onto cheap canvas
I purchased used
From a friend of a friend
who lives in his friend’s mom’s basement

Not only do I write poems
I make art with actual stuff man
I break the ashtray into a single point
Launch it like a baseball
On the square
and it becomes sticky
Like omission
Not quite lies but half truths
Just secrets really
that spread like a bloodied glass web

A cigarette burn point on a canvas
that has already been covered
with a frightening attempt at the Mona Lisa

The friend of a friend is in his mind
A high businessman
An artist among conmen
More worthy than the originals

No one can ever say again
that I don’t tell them
I threw it right out smack
in the middle of Mona’s smile
so it looks like her mouth is a bunker
of broken teeth that along swallowed
charcoal kisses
And only she,
not the dead men that kissed her,
survives

It is enough to disturb me,
but not to satisfy me

If she could speak
mouth spilling with clothed blood
She would say
Well that was uncalled for
And we’d laugh like old friends
Me,
already in ecstasy

They’ve all called you babe

They’ve all
called you babe

That is all you know
for sure

Patches of skin
run like garden paths
to tomb stones
of forgotten Shamans

Blessed
several times
And each time
Flesh decayed
And a new religion was formed

If I look up
from orris root graves
I can almost sense
the inside velvet
the bronze, the stone
red wine stained windows

I can see through
accidental mis-slips of clothes
where blackness has taken root
Often it starts in the extremities
At their fingers
On their foreheads

They begin to cover up more
and I know the time is coming

This church was built for me
By them they think
Even though I might have conjured it
alone

I bury them still alive
Their eyes closing as dirt covers their skin
As though going to sleep
They whisper I love you

But the truth is
they love the earth more
and to be free of me
is to be enwrapped
in the loudest silence
Somewhere
Where all hunted things go