Spit

Always left the streets with poets
no wait
there was a dancer too

but love
never finds its way
In these names

Always we sit
you
me
her
that one over there 

with her fifth smoke
screaming break up and blood
at anyone who cares to fuck

there is a sad way of things
deception 

in the breadth and lengths of history
a hospitality 

in our beds
as if we could
shut ourselves
to the horror of regrets

For 

this is what happens
when you hang words
on the window,
in the closet
between you and space
on some God-forsaken drunk night
or non-drunk night 

(for those of us who cannot afford it)

between the woman
and the pockets of the boy. 
my boy
yours
ours

does it matter
if we run our fingers over his
body?
If we moan like all the others
or bite like all the others
but never cum the same
or NOT AT ALL

does it matter
if i kiss you kiss him he kisses her she kisses me to kiss her?

***

A circle
of lovers
a halo,
a wreath,
a cuff,
an altar 

of beds,
laughter,
faces,
shirts, (with buttons)
to merge into each other like bad stories
never to be seen with my eyes open

or to fall into accidents of the anatomically correct heart.

To let a clam spread over your back,
like the wings of an angel, dead to the world
is a wonderful thing.
To sit without floods in your eyes,
and soft soft lips,
is too.

I wasn't calm 

as the words 
died in my palms - 

my mouth shut softly.

The taste will fade eventually.
So will the face.

I wish I was raised differently,





and taught to spit.