I take issue with that interpretation.
I don’t think it was a sex dream.
who are you when
you’re not dressed so nice?
just a bundle of sticks
flirting with fire.
what is it with men and their constant need
to inflict themselves upon other people?
or, maybe that’s just the human condition and men
are merely more vocal about it.
art, like love, is not voluntary.
you don’t always pursue it because you want to
or because it gives you pleasure,
but because you have no choice.
and, like art, love is not
always beautiful or tidy
and this dear man keeps calling
to tell me he doesn’t understand.
I could be wrong, but
I don’t think his question has anything to do
I am very good at talking to crazy people.
I don’t mean that to be blithe or clever or artistic.
rather, I think there is something about my taciturn stolidity
that attracts the slurry and bee-buzz of insanity,
I don’t mind asking ridiculous questions
to match their nonsensical ramblings.
(or, maybe they simply see something
and that, dear, is me being artistic)
like waves, people
often need a rock to beat
in the pedi-mall
in broad, bright daylight
a man cried to me and told me
“I know you’re sick, baby. I know you’re in pain.”
again: men inflicting themselves upon other people.
the last time a stranger held my hand and prayed for me,
I got T-boned at a rather benign intersection.
it’s a dubious sorcery, this praying business:
even the most lilliputian of things have meaning–
of course the wry spokes of a bicycle wheel are full
I tell myself I hate, but
most likely, it’s more a form of endearment.
I am taking all of this very
it’s giving me a vocabulary
for things that have nothing to do with
I think this sort of things is more palatable to read when made to look like poetry.