In the City, In February

If I were to take your mittened hand
and squeeze it like a just-ripe fruit,

I wonder if it would burst—

If the sticky juice of you would
seep through my fingers
so that I could taste
what you are all about.

I wonder if you have seeds—
the watermelon kind— black,
soft-hard eyes buried in the
cheeky pink layers of your scarves,
your hat.

I wonder if you are warm
under my tongue, between
my teeth, sliding on my gums—
the peachy melon taste of papayas.


I wonder if,
inside your January pod,
your skin is tinted amber by the sun.

under your down,
your belly is damp, sweet honey.

Most,
I wonder if you might
(from inside out)
bring me the Spring.

These American Hips

I balance on these American hips,
sure-footed step of a
white Sister
(so they tell me).

Never carried the weight of my big
body like some Anglo Woman whose
smile promises shame,
beads of sweat-drop-
apologies on her tight
lip.

Weight of my body carried me
up stairs, all over
the World and here I am

Been in beds and twisted sheet,
thighs to burn with hot wet sweetness of a man, but
they are made
to move in a slinging motion—
side-to-side, the wide arc of a pendulum,
and these American hips,
they take me places.

To Rock and Roll

Unveil the Victrola,
honey,

and in the name of narrow-minded
nothingness
(and nudity)

we’ll dance-
with our ankles angled upwards
and our skirts around
our necks-

and in the next room
racing rocking chairs
and reeling in
newsprint,
Mom and Pop will never
know better.

Foxtrot hopping
our hot right hips
(to The Twist)
Two-step waltzing
to Charleston
and back-

we might
forget to set the table
and stay out all
night.

But just past dawn,
we can Feather Step home,
and I’ll hold your hand ‘til

Front Porch Heaven.

Pushing Silhouettes

Only your silhouette
seems as strong as you
should be
because it is twice your size
when you are ten feet
away from the light,
away from
me.

Your legs swing over
fast, and the smooth ivory
of your back,
polished with sweat
(like some idol),

stares at me in the buzzlight
of a lamp until I turn away,
too.

Then we are both
pushing our silhouettes
into opposite corners, growing bigger
growing
away from our bed
away from each other.

We are becoming
walls.

Jet

it is three guys in glasses
in the new york of cities
and a very fat
cat-
he’s
barfing bloody hair balls
and cat food
since 2 in the morning
and moaning me-ows
bouncing off once-white walls
in a crowded flat.

three guys in glasses
and this fat cat in a box
made of boxes,
it took two together for this tub
of fur weighing almost
too much for the
feeble but fierce arms of the
bespectacled spectacle
of three starving artists
walking him down the street
to an all-night
Vet.

Jet…

is his name,
comically uncanny for
a twenty-five pound
mound of feline flesh.

but no one says anything
because they are just blessed
to have him here at all,
this beautiful, fury ball
of fun named Jet
with his dark and
depressing
past life.

See, Jet was a regular
kitty-cat-tastic house pet
in a flat full of go-getter
sub-letters and artists
and young, hip mommies
who couldn’t pay rent
but were bent on living
in the city.

And his original owner was
Roy, a kind of skin-and-bones-and-tats
boy of twenty-five or six who loved
animals and long walks
and art
and misdemeanors
who worked as a corporate carpet
cleaner downtown.

Jet was the best-kept
tenant on the block with
shining fur and a pur like
a goddamn lion,
fit and fuzzy and full-of-
wild oats for fertile felines.

So he strutted and slept
and sexed and sewed his seeds
in several strays
until one day
lover of animals, long walks and art,
litterer of Jet’s kitty litter,
his skinny-ass
bag-of-bones owner
Roy stole a Toyota
and drove it away,
Jetless.

And being the sensitive
cat-beast he was,
Jet suffered the sting of
rejection and elected to
slam his slim physique with
pounds upon pounds of
Purina pet food
and leftover beer
which he haplessly lapped up
with his tongue after tenants
tossed cans and bottles and missed the
trash.

Yes- he’s used
eight out of nine lives
and it’s a miracle he’s alive
and thriving and
imbibing by the nickname of
Fatty,
a cat of twenty-five pounds

until now,
three years later
at two in the morning
as he’s puking up
cupfuls of hairballs
and cat food
and wallowing in self-loathing
until this threesome,
an artist, a liar, a comic book writer,
all in glasses,
shuffled together this fat
fucking cat
to an all-night vet.

pennies collected and
Jet-petting for comfort,
the threesome barely afforded
the medical bills
and the kitty cat pills

but he went under the knife
and Jet’ll be all right
on a diet

of mush and light meat
for a while,

and he’ll recover,
become a sort of old master
of the Jellicle Ball
though

still carrying the wounds of rejection
like love handles
and saddle bags

and retaining
his affinity
for beer.

To William and Mr. Crane

I, too,
am mad at Fate’s big
breasts and
smooth belly, her wide even 

hips.

But a ninny she
isn’t,

Like every other woman.

Naturalism for you with
wild adventures and brotherly
love.

Homoerotic Othello,
Iago aflame with
the stuff of fraternity…

You force Fate in
to the Womb

and I am not surprised that She corrects
you.

You watch me thumbing a clear line
Down the spines on the shelf
Like you have never thought
To touch a book.

But this is my produce aisle.

I squeeze my vegetables unapologetically,
Love to feel the crispness of a new one,
The soft flesh of the old.

You are the problem, gripping
Your hungry fingers behind your
Back in Museum Stance and
Biting your lusty tongue.

But I feed happily on rich
Words and feel the belly
Bulge with pride.

Not I the problem,
You.