i will hurt you (and that
is a threat, not an excuse)
my eyes are red, and
there are six seeds of
my lips; my teeth skate across
the tips of your fingers, keratin
coarse like the beds of your nails.
i am trimmed cuticles, i am the
wood of the rails up the mechanical
i am air, and your constricted throat;
i am sharpened chain, and twisted
rope. i am the light of the moon, i
am a wolf’s nested lair. i am the feet
which hang from the noose, and the
cross to which your palms are nailed.
i will hurt you and you won’t see it.
i am miasma theory. you don’t even
have to be near me. my eyes are red,
but they don’t have to be seen. the
queen of the underworld doesn’t
ask permission to scream.
This was on my old (deleted) blog. I miss it.
I went to a market today in midtown and met a girl who was selling her poems. You pick your topic and price and she writes you a poem on the spot. The girl before me traded her favorite drawing pen for a poem. I traded $3 for a poem about traveling.
I once told a joke about a straight person.
They came after me in droves.
Each one singing the same:
Don’t fight fire with fire.
What they mean is: Don’t fight fire with anything.
Do not fight fire with water.
Do not fight fire with foam.
Do not evacuate the people.
Do not sound the alarms.
Do not crawl coughing and choking and spluttering to safety.
Do not barricade the door with damp towels.
Do not wave a white flag out of the window.
Do not take the plunge from several storeys up.
Do not shed a tear for your lover trapped behind a wall of flame.
Do not curse the combination of fuel, heat, and oxygen.
Do not ask why the fire fighters are not coming.
When they say: Don’t fight fire with fire.
What they mean is: Stand and burn.