Dancing Like My Mother

1.
I'm itchy
on my face
and my ears too
i think its the msg
from my beef salad,
vietnamese.
or all the sugar
in the bear claw
I found in a white paper bag
on the kitchen table, half eaten.

2.
She comes in
with her pants pulled down
with her ass out and
her pubes showing
she hugs each of us
rubbing his sweaty chest
against each of our faces
swinging his hips smally
to britney spears.
He throws his phone against
the wall, it breaks
into five pieces
the batter bounces off my leg.
he smiles
like a child. his eyes
red and wet, pre tears
pre crying.

3.
he says
"when i leave
what if i forget to
be gay"
i say
"you have to be kidding"
he says
"well you know what if i forget how
to be gay"
i say
"well its not like you are particularly queenie
you don't say...girl"
"girrrrl"
he says
"see you say that like an animal, you're gonna be fine"

Posted by Johnny at 2:57 PM | Permalink | Comments

whiskey in iced coffee
when you order a sandwich
at 3pm, on saturday
at the corner market.
the korean lady
asks her daughter to take your order
because you said "what" too many
times when she asked
if you wanted a hard
or soft roll.
you drink deep on the coffee
the whiskey strong, floats on top.

Posted by Johnny at 1:31 AM | Permalink | Comments

I did coke
i thought i could love you
no really
you were there for
a minute.
you said
"im going to la"
and i said
"have a good time"
and you said
"i will"

Posted by Johnny at 4:33 AM | Permalink | Comments

We will not age well, you and me.
The booze has already
taken hold of the skin below our eyes
pulling it, and rouging it.
Your back teeth hurt constantly
and this at 26.
The edges of your index and middle finger tips
browned from the burned down bits of cigarette
you smoke out the broken window in the
living room, or walking down the street
in your black boots, falling apart pants, and
barely a shirt shirt.
My hair retreats from the beach of
my forehead, a slow moving low tide.
Yours too, our widows peaks
framed by curled wispy mouse brown hair,
the heads and hair of babies.
My face's summer redness does not fade
completely anymore in the winter
settling instead in the swolen
pits and lifts of my cheeks and nostrils.
When i dust the make up on my face
at night
it settles chalk like in the fine and
think lines around my eyes.
my skin is not taut.
sleep does not make you look fresh.
Water does not make you look fresh.
we've taken to eating just eggs
and cheese
beef and spinach
cooked into an omelete
or a taco
or boiled sometimes
or a salad.
There is always a whiskey bottle on top of the
refrigerator, and coffee just brewed or about to be,
or heated in a beaker on the stove.
There are only 3 forks but 16 spoons
and your slippers have rubbed though all the way
at the big toe and heel.
When I wake at noon i shuffle through a pile
of dirty pants, greyed shirts, dig out a jockstrap
discarded just hours before.
it's come to this
a jock strap
a hard boiled egg
and the best coffee we can buy.
we are not aging well.

Posted by Johnny at 8:34 PM | Permalink | Comments

1.
She has crabs
"I have crabs" she says
She pulls up her teal
tank top to show you her stomach.
"Stop" you say.

2.
A mouse shuffles in the garbage can
She says "I think its in the compost"
and taps the lid down with a bare foot.
"I think she's in the garbage" you say.
"no listen!"
you do, then
"you're right she's in the compost" you say.

3.
You wear the white shirt
that makes you feel like a woman,
which you don't notice till you
walk by a handsome man
and you tilt your head as if
you had a pony tail
and shift your weight as if
you had tits.
Eyes semi-closed, sleepy, bedroom eyes.
You look stoned and not like a woman.

4.
She says
"you may be the only queen i know
who's nicer in drag than out of it"

5.
You say
"if you did more facebooking
and less fucking, you wouldn't have crabs"

Posted by Johnny at 3:56 PM | Permalink | Comments

It has rained all day.
You sit on the floor
on a mat
leaning back against the couch
your head pressed by gravity
on your housemate's knee.
Your neck bent back
your head toward the large
computer, on the large desk
in the corner of the room.
this is the second merchant ivory film of the day
a faggot sits next to you
his hand on your thigh
under the blanket.
a small carraffe of red wine
presses into the palm of your
right hand.
On screen Ralph Feinnes all blind
and sorta rich and acting poorly
bumps into a red wicker chair.
cool air comes in through the broken window by the door.

Posted by Johnny at 10:27 PM | Permalink | Comments

Your jeans have ripped.
you tried to sit on the arm of a chair
next to the broken window
in your living room, next to your exboyfriend
closely, closer than you've sat in a year
and your jeans tore silently, but you felt it,
under your right thigh near the crotch.
You say, "My jeans just ripped,"
Your ex nods, half in conversation
with a friend who sits on the couch,
pink teal and white crepe streamers
hang in bright loops from the cieling,
there's confetti on your shoe.
You reach between your legs and find the hole.
The denim there soft, it tears more as you finger
it.
You get up, a freshly full plastic cup
of ice whiskey and coffee in your right hand.
You approach a cluster of friends near the kitchen,
"My jeans just ripped"
"where?"
"right here between my legs" you touch the spot
"you can't see it"
someone says
"that sucks" and shrugs
"no" you say "I've had these jeans for 4 yours. They are
my favorite jeans they were $250"
"you spent $250 on jeans?"
"but they are great, they are french but they fit so good
and they are ripped. I was supposed to wear these jeans when i was forty"
You realize that you've always expected to have these jeans forever
you imagine yourself bloated greyed and slouched, a belly pushing over the
waistband of the jeans, the ankles and calves tight on skinny legs, wide black suspenders keeping them up, like your father.
"you can patch them" someone says
"yeah, ill mend them"
"isnt it sad that i thought i'd have these foreveer, that's so weird..."
they shrug.
An awful song comes on the stereo and your rooomate,
topless with a voice almost completely gone from screaming
starts in on the chorus, loudly, croaking along
he drops to his knees in the middle of the floor, two strands of gold chain
hang from his neck and tangle in his chest hair. Tan
arms outstretched eyes wide and wild, and hair askew, he sings at the cieling.

Another friend starts vogueing up and down the length of the room
and another roomate rummages for and finds a strobelight.
he plugs it in and darks the rest of the lights.
the strobe is irregular, it skips beats.
3 more people start dancing, and one lipsynchs along.
they perform for the three entangled on the couch,
a potential or wayward threesome of two men one woman,
a straight couple and their long time faggot friend,
half hugging half fighting.
your ex sits in the chair
by the broken window
cup of booze held tight to his chest
grinning.

Posted by Johnny at 2:22 PM | Permalink | Comments

1.
His recently naired chest
scratches at your arm
like so many tiny cat tongues.

2.
Just before he cums
he climbs on top
of your chest
straddles your shoulders and
shoves his dick in your mouth.
It tastes slaty, and bitter
like cum

3.
He says
"I've had too much to drink,
I can't cum, I must be getting old"
you let him lick your thighs
while you jerk off
you pass out, just after.

Posted by Johnny at 5:45 PM | Permalink | Comments