Vulgar Poet

… And then there was the poem, (splitting
hungry molecules in the back of my mind,) about
how I want to squeeze my whole body into your
mouth and curl up like a lost thought, lullibied
into a quiet submission,

inside you I would become a moth.
Spidery, forgotten;

really all I want is to be left alone.

But the reality of my vulgarity is much harsher,
in fact I made love to you in the backseat of the
old Chevy, the couch, on the floor of your
friend's apartment. I want each door in the house
opened, but all windows closed. Drapes drawn
because the outside distracts me so.

In truth I've lied to you about many things -
cloaked criticism inside optimism, screamed
about the inconsistencies of favoritism, gone to
bed railing about the bureaucracy of nepotism,

bled myself dry over republicanism, majority leaders,
ego trips, fashion tips. Sexualized sexuality, or rather
lack there of, because we all think about it, but
no one has the biggest balls to talk about it,

and yes, I swear;
curse when I burn my hand on the stove, miss
the green light on my way home from work, or
just fuck up again…

And in the back of my mind there's this poem
that starts out with the shape of your back when
you pull yourself through me, the way your breath
pushes out awkward edges. How just a few seconds before,
your hand always squeezes my hand.

Always, like clockwork.

Always, is a rather misleading word, if you think about it long enough.

But, there's always this, and…