I have spawned a variety of poems. Each poem has fought its way into one of these manuscripts:
They want evidence,cold hard fact.They want his picture taken to provethat he is more than decadence,more than a superficialartifact,crafted by human celebration,a soft mancreated to be theirgenteel bow-tie metropolis manwearing teal, not green,a crossing-his-legs-out-on-the-scene manwith soft handswearing pointed toes, not steel.He is only in their minds,something they find appropriateto construct,somebody they think would bea good
I want to make himeatall his words in bite-sizes too bigto swallow,so that hechokeson his intentions,leaving his deceitful gifts undelivered,dribbling excuses over hischin,running down his chock-filledthroat. I want dusk to settle in hischeeks,while hiseyesplead for my Heimlichand his slippery fingers clutch in vain,imploring mercy,receiving merelya paton the backfor making me think he was morethan random.
It was an unclean kill, a spine-crunchingly majestic twist, and then something warm spilling down my legs, soft fingertips down my back.Listen, she whispered.All I could hear was her breath, so steady, so effortless in my ear.The first time I kissed her, we were out on the porch, gardenias whorling through my nostrils.She was shaking
The cherubim look like bullet holes against the sun as they fly away.Before the light, his translucent skin glows red, revealing the skeletoninside him.His eyes are frosty,but the sun is ineffective andbends away.The walls of his prisonare fashioned from the bones of furious mothers and held together by translation.
He isthe new phenomenon in Pistol City, free oblivious epiphanies, knocking over anthologies for years,back hot toddies and balladsfor tears,dropping his pennies into paper cups,two at a time,making his way into your hearts,into your homes,almost making you believethat he has found a final resting placeto lay his fiery head,to douse those luminous stands of divinationreaching