Dubin: Wanderer

Hostel with hospital sheets

sterile white

thin walls-- thin enough to hear the talk next door

but not to speak the language.

Hello Dublin--

cobblestones and guinness

and meat in every meal.

Blistered feet-bleeding adventure,

this jet-setting heart is beating something

syn

co

pated

It's suppertime in New York--

A starch, a protein, and a vegetable.

Early yet with eyes fast shutting,

I'll wake tomorrow

wondering where I am

in this submarine of a bunk-bed

with aching toes

and a strange man in the bed

across the room

and fight onward.

To the next drink,

the next shop,

the next field of the greenest grass I swear

I've ever seen.

And feel

alive

awake

electric

A wanderer with shutter-eyes

and a dully aching, full and marvelous

heart.

Dublin 3/Bray, Ireland

the jet-black drowning

of the lady in the

water

bobs against the cool sun

the window panes are cracked here.

house full up.

tea and violence in the

late morning--

across the green she goes.

guinness and potato in the

early evening.

Bandage wounded feet.

Empty the slate-brain dusted chalky.

An early flight tomorrow.

Edinburgh: Whiskey

I run out of everything- money, clothing, drugs, friends, love. I've got a heart of hot rock-- from the mouth of a volcano, and legs just shaved in a cruddy bathroom.

Brushing lips with another unremarkable man-- because a night with a boring stranger is better than a night alone.

Whiskey doesn't burn like the first time I tried it-- in a New York flat, with a bible for a coaster, and hothouse hair. I was feeling sweat cool against my temples and papers scattered, damp with boozy gold rings.

Whiskey over ice-- smooth and cold and hot all at once.

And my stranger was a cute drunk--

But I didn't ask his number,

and he didn't get mine.

Countdown

Countdown

The hours

In six the sun

Will rise up slow

And sweet

Eight

In the air above

London

Watching the runway winking

Farewells

Countdown the days

Tomorrow in Dublin

Friday in Glasgow

Saturday the highland grasses

Swallow knees and wave

with gentle sharpness

And there might be a man

With a lilting voice

Breaking like waves

Over me

And there might be a girl

With copper hair and

A body like a boy.

And I’ll still be counting down

To someplace warm

And safe

And drunk

And happy

Pacing

pacing the floor

in my pumps

pulsing the light

in my veins

shaking me down

I am fistfuls of wild hair

and tomorrow

i will still be a pair of eyes

and a pair of tits

and a pair of feet

that take me across city streets

and subway stairs

surging the heat

in my thighs

with hands outstretched

and lips half-parted.

This is Not an Innuendo

this is not an innuendo,
she suddenly whispered,
from under the covers.
this is not a come on.
this is the quietest cry out I can make.


Maybe on some level
I will always need
someone's hand
between my thighs.

Someone's mouth on mine-
for silence's sake.

Curved

i want the man with the chilled hands

up my shirt

and the soft wet lips and the

teeth

i want the man with the

mischief eyes and the

whiskey mouth

and the words that toss me down

and keep me there.

and that could be any man

but i want you

to curve up into me.

I will lie beneath you, like Eve.

And I will lie upon you, like Lilith wanted.

And I will lie beside you, with my cheek upon your chest

and my wine-filled eyes will close to stroke you with

silken lids.