Thursday, August 28, 2014

TFLN Poem -Customer Service, Cunnilingus


Here's this week's poem.

In a concerned effort
To improve customer service in the future,
Would you please rank the following questions
(on a scale of 1-10 , worst to best)?

1)How would you describe last night’s verbal patter/foreplay? Did it meet your desired levels of bon mots, whispered innuendo, and vulnerable coupling?   

2) What was your opinion of the room and its fixtures (i.e, the  Yayoi Kusama
Print, the muted, Spartan furnishings, the slight smell of sandalwood)   

3)Was ample attention paid to the precise style of oral ministrations desired by the requestor? 

4)How would you rank tongue speed  and dexterity?   

5) Due to the lateness of the hour and your urgent text which led to this impromptu  face-sitting, we did not explore other pleasures. You had reached out for some, and even attempted to unzip my jeans, and I gently brushed you away.  A call was made that your pleasure alone was needed this night.  Was that judgement correct?  
6) Based on your experience with this evening, would you recommend this service to your friends? 

7)When you finally fell asleep, and I softly removed your glasses and placed them safely on the ottoman, while watched your shivering ribs rise and fall, did you know that, for a minute, I leaned in close, right to your nape, felt your pulse resonate on my lips, and I kissed it? The only kiss we had that night?   
On behalf of the management, I thank you for the time and detail taken to completing this survey.

May you be always satisfied, and may I see you soon.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Completes A Crossword Puzzle


Here's this week's poem.

A Divorced Dad Completes a Crossword Puzzle

6am in a tattered diner.  Orange, faded barstools
Sliced open decades ago by vandals, the plastic
Gnarled and pinching tight against the skin.

He’s on his fourth cup of coffee.  Eyes down,
Ballpoint pen scanning the last remaining mystery.
14 across:  “Dante’s Distraught Destination”
Nine letters. 

The silence of the diner is broken by a quartet
Of two gaggling couples, barging into a booth.
Still fresh from drinking, loudly holding conversation.

He shuts his eyes. Presses his pen into the empty pocket
Of the first box. Breathes and sifts more sugar into
The cup.  The couples prate:  Can you believe how many
Camera bags Chester has now?  I mean, honey?  Isn’t that just
Too much? /Not if I keep buying cameras/Remember, remember,
Remember when we had that tequila phase we went through where
We just couldn’t stop buying Peruvian hybrids/And now our cupboard’s so bare, you
Won’t let me work/Because you want to get a silly job like bartending.  I told him, Louise,
I told him, if he gets a bar job, there’s no way we’d see each other. Me teaching full time and all. 
Just two sleeping shapes in the same house/But think of all the free alcohol….

He watches, morbid with fascination.
Because he’s seen this horror film. He knows how time, the predictable sculptor,
Will carve them, suffer them. Sober them. 
And then, before his chin can quiver with the shared agreement of loss,
The answer, it appears:  A DARK WOOD.
Onto the page.  He slaps a twenty on the counter, an extremely generous tip for
Time, glances once more at the two merry couples, and

He walks.  He walks with no direct destination, but with purpose.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

TFLN poem - Rectification, Roofies

Hey, Here's this week's poem.  Knocked this one off in a hurry because I'm behind on a lot of projects. But, keeping to a schedule of writing is a good thing for a body to do.

You deepen the mystery.
That’s how you tender the hearth,
The smoky, seasoned coals of love.

Illusion must be kept.
Shadows and the landscape of fingerprints for sex.
Hair color modified, the original hue long forgotten.

There’s a door in the bathroom for a reason.

My ablutions, my quiet and waste-bearing time,
Needs to be apart from him.
A church of noise and water.

The beginning of it all shouldn’t matter.

So I slipped a pill in his drink. So he stumbled
Into my apartment.
So I peeled off his clothes and watched him breathe
Like a frightened goldfish.

In time, he shuddered to my insistent touch.
In time, we locked our hips together
And staring, chased the pleasure
Percolating from our hungry want.

What holds, what keeps, is the bleeding now.

And if I break this mystery,
All others will crumble
And I’ll just be another barely contained shape

Sunday, August 17, 2014

DD Poem - A Divorced Dad Rides the Subway


Here's this week's Divorced Dad Poem:

A Divorced Dad Rides the Subway

Outside. It’s always a dangerous gambit.
He’s prepared. Subway pass secured and tapping his wallet.
Each step down into the station becomes choreographed falling.
On the bottom step, a rat, previously hidden,
With its lower half pulped and savagely bleeding,
In defiance of his fatal condition,
Lunges past him towards the open air.

What do you do when you encounter your familiar?

And what happens once that kindred spirit has left you,
Most likely to fight and spit and bleed itself out for a few
Hours at most, until his tiny, determined eyes grow ossified
And the struggle ends?

He’s marinating on this worry, hands shaking as he slides the pass,
Pushes his hip between the turnstile,
And steps down onto the platform.
Thought chewing pensive upon pensive thought,

When out of the random circumstance,
A spritely  mohawked  woman in a jean jacket
Exits a newly arrived subway car,
Spies him, holds up her tattooed hand and exclaims:

High Five!

He turns, and with equal passion, slaps her hand.
He’s back in the connected, loving world.
Sidles into an open seat.
And covets that small, tender mercy of being seen.
Being known.
Hand to hand.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

TFLN Poem - Closeness, Cum


Here's this week's poem.

With enough attention and shared time,
Everyone becomes messy.  

We’re barely contained inside our cask of skin and wrappings.
Our words, these first few weeks, testing
The other, measured, artful.  Witty. Lacking dross.

Just as one tests the walls of an elevator by pressing
Their outstretched palm against its flat, corporate surface.

This must be done.

Once trust is bartered, mess can be shared.
Your sick, your defiant, tear-drinking fear.
Your blood.  Your debts, Your prison of addiction
And despair.

What I’m saying:
You haven’t earned my time.

I’m not some fucking colony on the moon
Where you can plant a flag
With your slick white seed
And claim me.

You have not asked.  You have not listened.

At the moment of selfish climax,
Your eyes are tightly closed,
And you are a fragile, distant child.