Foot-Claw Bathtub

it’s phone call love;
 leashed to a few words,
  letters, and dreams.
every other day
 some new word,
 some new discouragement,
and i find myself
 asking myself
 why i do this
  to myself.
No closer.
No wiser.
Nothing.

Beautiful Judas

in her photographs
she’s all smiles and laughs,
all hero-gesture and happiness.
in my mirror
 i’ve got the ghost eyes,
 sunken cheeks and five day beard
 without a grin to spare.
bone dry like wide deserts,
there’s a symphony of faults
 playing off in the distance.
so just humor me :
 this love
 isn’t much more than slavery.

Market This, Bitches

she calls herself alabaster.
screams it like sun fire.
the moans of her pleasure
are little angel songs.
God’s on a tight-rope
 net-less and brave
while blind folded Jesus
 is shot dead in Peru.
she’s got the capitalist heart
  for a communist boy
and the holy trinity
 is betting on rain.