The Housewife's Dilemma

She sweeps the floor mechanically

Expertly tilting the corner of the broom

To remove the smallest crumbs

Nestled firmly in the corner

Her head wrapped in thoughts of him

How will she get out of it tonight…

He’ll want it, of course,

But the thought of slipping

His yeasty, gritty cock  

Between her thin, polite lips

Involuntarily makes her shudder. 

He can’t get if off his mind,

These blow jobs,

But she has other things to think about

And his insatiable dick isn't one of them 

Although, she must make him happy,

She must at least try,

So, she wipes clean

The little puddles of milk on the counter

Trying to come up with ideas, with counter stories,

A blazing headache…

An injury…

Perhaps she will start her period...

These thoughts making her tired

And melancholy.

She needn’t worry so much.

He’s in his office with the door

Cleverly locked and the lights turned off

Slick red lips perusing the length

Of his hardness

Up and down like a piston

His fist clutching platinum blonde locks

And he tries not to make a fool of himself

While he loses control

While he cums

Into her hot, red mouth

He feels a little sick

Looking at her  

As the cum begins to drip

In thin lines down her chin,

Her eyes narrow and astute

Because she knows what he really is,

Oh, she knows.    

And in the back of his mind

He hates his prudent wife

Hates her dainty, feminine excuses;

Who is at the moment, scrubbing the spaghetti

Sauce off of his shirt from last night’s dinner.   

The Man I Want

He walks up behind me

And wraps his

Arms around my waist.

I want

Him to tangle his legs with mine

Before the burgeoning shadows of night

Creep into the room

And sleep finds its mark.

I want

The tender kisses as well

As the passionate deep.

I want

A man who is inspired by intellect

Who can find truths and mistakes  

Brilliantly polished by the strokes of a painters brush.  

I want

Him to sometimes reach under the table

Part my legs and with

Smooth sophistication

Fondle and caress me to oblivion

While dinner cools on a porcelain plate.  

I want

To be on all fours

So that he can firmly hold my hips

And push hard into my scented cunt

Pulling my hair,

For better leverage.  

I want him to possess the strength

To navigate the labyrinth,  

Into the solemn dark

Of my heart.  

Seriously

I don’t understand

Why the touch of your hand

Sends shivers down the length of my spine.

I’ve tried to conceive

Why you’re my biggest pet peeve

How you don’t find the truth in my eyes.  

I’ll never believe

That in this great sea

Of wandering souls and tepid, lost people  

You find solace in me,

In fucked up debris,

When you could find a soul that is peaceful.  

I wish you could tell me

There is an overpass

On I-15

A 200 foot drop

I walked there

Believing I could

Let gravity

And God’s palm

Push my tender head

Towards the calloused

Hard earth. 

But I didn’t do it. 

Maybe I am jealous

And angry

That you felt you could leave

Because you were bereft

And deadening inside

You lost your way

Pieces of your soul

Loose and drifting

Like everyone else’s.

You needed peace

And there wasn’t any to be found. 

Not here.

I hope you’ve found it. 

And I hope that your voice

Still skims the top of the earth

And finds solace

In the desolate sky.  

I'm Listening

I am sitting with my back

Against the wall

Just listening again

To your delusional diatribe:

How wonderful you really are

Once the drugs are gone

How wonderful you always were

If only we could all just understand

Each time you say it

I become a little smaller,

Shrink into the wall

Until I am a part of it:

Stoic cold stone  

No longer me, only

Part of the bland, white paint

That goes unnoticed and untouched,

Rooted indefinitely

Into obscurity.

Your Oxy's Are Worth Thousands

You get your little blue pills

 Worth thousands of dollars, you say,

And count them

Over and over again

In a dark room

In a dark car

On your mother’s couch

On your unmade bed

And then….

You spill them all over the floor

And must count them again.  

More missing each time

Less to count, but each becoming

An even more precious commodity

Your lips mottled and dry

With that sticky blue spittle

And your pupils shrink

Tiny, black points

I imagine your soul

Is fleeing

Diminishing through those

Little black points.  

I’m leaving, I say,

You don’t hear me.

I walk out the door feeling  

A demon smile smugly

Burning the skin  

Of my receding back

Through those little black pupils

While carefully eyeing

That diminishing pile

Of little blue pills

So You Say You Love Me

You finally give them to me,

The words I waited and ached for

So long…

Spears of hurt thrown

Into the frigid, deep of an ocean

That no longer belongs to you

A place of secrets and sly, slippery

Fish, bottom feeders

And forlorn creatures

That your words miss

This time

Because I’ve learned

That a hunter of your caliber

Only aims for the kill.

I’ve learned to survive

And outlived your lies

Now you

Weep; melancholy whimpers

Penetrating the ocean

Like the moans

of a stranded whale.

The Horror of Death for the Living

It’s much easier to write about

The triter things in life

Like turbulent sex poems

And my druggie boyfriend….

When I try

To write about

That little blue child

I held for 30 minutes in my arms

Before they stashed him away into

A cold dark room, where he was more

Alone somehow and colder

Somehow

And you kept the beanie on his head

Because you were afraid he would

Be chilled….

This remembrance;

50 daggers to my heart

I can’t let myself

Think about it.  

Or when I try to write

About the chaotic solitude

And confusion

At my brother’s funeral

Everyone strolling the graveyard

Like the walking dead

With shattered shards of glass

Piercing holes into their brains

Because he’s dead now

And we don’t know who we are anymore

Our world split in two

And the graves sit idly

In the frozen, hard earth

Oblivious and obstinate to our

Suffering.

I write   

To refrain from feeling

These heavy lacerations  

And the holes in my soul

Where I am no longer whole  

That ventilate the

Horror of living