Bitch, move

Man, oh man, it's cold.


Here's a weird new poem! Read it with a heavy coat on, so that you'll come to associate it with some kind of warmth. Maybe? Might that work? In a Pavlovian sort of way?

Bitch-Move-Out-The-Way

Moon of face, droop of mouth why

so sour you slick

dude? Is it the hair 

swirling rings round your forehead, soft

constellations of down, skin thick

as moss? Hold that handrail—your claws

are slipping. Hey,

monkey-head,

we don't blame you—the N train

hum-hum bumpy, bright slutty

light slanting to make black-eyes

blacker and men with limps pray

harder the train might thrust them

flying atop prettylady's empty

lap and wouldn't her fat lips

feel just right, just

right all your ears tingling

sex sex sex all those x's and what they

mean lit up red. Oh

Big Lady Silver we don't blame you

your improbable features, scrawled

in deep dark mother-cave, nutrients

delivered free, sleep and growing

eyelids the major tasks of the day—harder

when your bearer is bourboned. But

forgive her, your mother.

Grown-up is no Sadie Hawkin's

dance, Darlin', no my-call-

let's-groove-this-one-loose-

while-the-lights-are-softish,

sorry, nope. Grown is a slow

Charleston danced by accident

with some bitch-
won't-move-out-the-way

down a crowded street. Grown

is unscrewing all the lightbulbs

one night and opening the refrigerator

instead, hand-jiving on the cold

floor until you get hungry enough

and eat all the pickles, waking up

next day, doing it all again.