Oh, Damn. Okay.
My mouth is ripped open by your biggest blue, morning glory eyes.
I do not know how it is that where most people see
bleeding gums, sharp fangs
you see God
But if that is what He is, the look
in your morning glory, biggest blue eyes as you translate the dead language
inscribed on the inside of my cheeks
let there be light
As I sip this glass of pinot tonight, and swirl
longingly the burgundy and smooth,
I am reminded of my father, illuminated by firelight,
Chianti nesting in his right fist, Macanudo tight between
the nubs of his two fingers, like a pencil,
sitting buttoned-up in mysterious history.
I learned to love wine like a lollipop.
I could once, or twice — if I was feeling devilish,
dip my finger into his deep, crystal glass,
and taste berry pop on my tongue.
When I was six, I sat across from him.
His scent, like he just lit a match,
sat heavily on me.
I would pluck the grapes
off a decorative laurel, staring steadily
at his behemoth through thick clouds of smoke.
I would peel away their terrible green,
tossing them wordlessly into coal-lit fire.
My father is predictable in his terrycloth
robe. He has not bought a new
wallet, or watch, despite protestations,
for the entire twenty-
two years I have owed him. Still,
each year he buys the same New Balance sneakers
and blue, backless slippers.
He cares well for his meaty, block feet.
On Sundays he would splay the paper
The Springfield Republican
messily over the coffee table, spread jam
on the news, and brew coffee black into the pot.
With the change of season, came change of sport.
I learned early the buzzing of Nascar races —
On a lovely Sunday morning, I accidentally made
an impressive wisecrack about someone named Schumacher.
He laughed for years after.
I know what Brubek’s Take Five is, if we’re talking
about jazz, and he reminded me that it is,
without a doubt, A Beautiful Morning,
When I first played a guitar, I could hear
of paused television while I practiced
A E D over and over.
His hands always could graze
the strings the keys the drum
more gracefully than mine.
My father used to build houses.
I have heard it said he helped
build half the homes in our town.
It is no wonder he could so easily
nail together all these pieces.
Each morning I check for money
tucked underneath the coffee machine.
When business went kaput, big bad Dad
dragged a dirty plastic table to the front of Allen St Package Store
and sold cigars to boozers,
because no one should tell the boss what to do.
He since popped up shop,
but every year since has been a bad year for cigars.
Every time I finish a glass of wine,
which is likely more often than I should finish a glass of wine,
I wonder if he is sitting in his big blue chair
(which became a similarly worn maroon chair
in the sweaty year of ‘98),
nesting restfully into the death march of Jerry Remy.
— Renee Berard (via rbustyb)
— Pamela Ann, Chasing Imperfection (via simply-quotes)
I like the way you have doctored your body.
I like the way
when I read the slow curves of your hips,
I also read the script in your head
in swirling black letters.
It reads: Swing through life!
I don’t know what it means, but I’ll swing
if you know what I mean.
On the top of…
Everything is the same shade of rose-colored,
rose-watered elastic, pink, pink flesh. I reached
deep into the caverns of the butterfly cave and pull
out torn up ashed pieces of rose petal, pedaled.
It is pink, soft and brown pink, like the color of bare
back after sun, morning glow yellow. Pink, pink rose,
deep-watered, soiled, splashed rose, pinked up, perked
up after grocery green picnic, tied tight like a bow.
Knotted, double knotted, tied tight like a pink, pink bow.
Wavy-weird, dreamy, creamy pink and white, light pink,
the color of her flesh under clothes. I want kisses
like the underbelly of a kitten. I want kisses like the red-
pink, puffed-pink of her lips; let me touch you there.
I read that the paw pads of a kitten are made
of the same pink stuff as his cold, wet nose. Everything
is the same taste of rose-colored rose water and I
won’t drink pink, sink in pink anymore.
It was late, of course,
just the two of us still at the table
working on a second bottle of wine
when you speculated that maybe Eve came first
and Adam began as a rib
that leaped out of her side one paradisal afternoon.
Maybe, I remember saying,
because much was possible back then,
and I mentioned the talking snake
and the giraffes sticking their necks out of the ark,
their noses up in the pouring Old Testament rain.
I like a man with a flexible mind, you said then,
lifting your candlelit glass to me
and I raised mine to you and began to wonder
what life would be like as one of your ribs —
to be with you all the time,
riding under your blouse and skin,
caged under the soft weight of your breasts,
your favorite rib, I am assuming,
if you ever bothered to stop and count them
which is just what I did later that night
after you had fallen asleep
and we fitted tightly back to front,
your long legs against the length of mine,
my fingers doing the crazy numbering that comes of love.
— Genesis — Billy Collins
i don’t really find cis people attractive. i mean, not to be cisphobic or anything, like i recognize that cis people are real and i’m sure there’s SOMEONE who finds them attractive, but they’re just unappealing to me, sexually. again, though, i swear i’m not cisphobic. it’s just a preference.