Posts Tagged ‘hands’

Like Sick Horses

April 14, 2010

I want to press my mouth on yours.

I want to wear a dress the color of dead fleas.

I want you to put down your guns.


I have checked the room

and it is safe.

I have checked my friends

and they are full of blood.

I have convinced your hands to

drop the guns, to wait trembling.


The birds and falling ice in my dreams

will break my body.  Don’t worry for me,

don’t go.

Wearing Heels in a Minefield Is Stupid

November 14, 2009

I would like to violently

remove the front door

with my own two

weak female human hands

and throw it at the face

on your skull holding the

caustic billboard two-timing

slimy gray matter making

the inconsequential whining

grinding down the sensitive

brakes in my brain overheating

with the flare of stifled

impatience, coming out of

a pink-glossed mouth without

doubt about flimsy fictional

convictions – yes, I’m

an insensitive bitch but

at least I’ve put some

thought behind it.


November 6, 2009

“Excuse me, ma’am; could you direct me to yer shitter?”

says the large white man with twitchy hands.

so I rustle through the cabinet and next to the pistol

I don’t know how to shoot is the bathroom key.

“There you are, sir,” I say, gesturing out the door to

the right.  I wanted to laugh real loud after he left

to drop a load, but he was so earnest – like he was

really tryin’ to be a gentleman just how his momma

taught him.  five minutes later he returns the key

with a shaky tip of a Montana Troutfitters cap and a

“Thank ya, ma’am.”  squinting out glass

double doors at vehicles choosing which

direction to drive,  I decide the podunk little

7-Up and Cheetos oasis I’m holdin’ down ain’t

so bad, you know?  it’s alright.