[015]
05/02/2007 02:28 p.m.

I.
Every poem written with a basis in love
I pray –
(And staunch that prayer) –
that it may have been written with me in mind.

I want you to think of me as
A perfect creature –
(certainly nobody else does) –
the goodness in me,
I want you to consider that me
Fully and wholly.


II.
I happen to know that I am not prepared for this.
There isn’t a single inch of my body that’s in love with you
But there’s miles of half burnt tendrils
That care if you’re not with me.

I suppose it’s pride.
My ego requires constant feeding
And ravages my innards with its claws.

But.
I know I’m better than you.
I know you’re more ignorant
And have a lower tolerance for liquor
Than I have for people.

I know you’re twenty years old and going nowhere near
As far as me.


III.
I am drunk so often that I can’t think of Miami
The way that I want to.

In between scratching Cesar’s pitbull on its pate
And swallowing grateful mouthfuls of Blue Moon,
I wonder why I was raised in a way
That prohibits me from discerning Honduran men
From Borinquenos.

I have never fought with anyone
The way you do;
Snuck up on them terrible-like
And let loose,
The strongest coward I know.

All I can do is repeat
Unfeeling
The automatic words of love my insides just can’t fathom

and you’re too far away to be Hialeah anymore.


IV.
As a woman of smoke and mirrors
Who’s gotten used to breaking quickly,
I want you to know how often I have stumbled,
And somehow only ever thought of you.

Occasionally I search various places for your name;
Ft. Lauderdale, Miami,
And come up empty.


V.
I have lost the ability for catharsis.
I blame the way you love me
And still throw me to the dogs.



I am currently Restless