weave

the butane flame is green
and blue. like those pix of gas
supercooled the string pulling taut
then hexplosion, foucalt on a cry for them stage.

i light the pipe. tobacco
never did this for me. tonite i'm
at the bar and all the men are lost
in their drinks and tv. intermittent
friendships, one blends into the next//
portman toes.

i think about your birthday wish. me all dom n shit
what it might do to your delicate psyche.
it's not all sex n drugs n no tomorrows you know
one thing i'm not is a fun woman.

i ws gonna look up foucalt but even the french
have lost their charm, up in montreal one's cleaning
a hidey hole for my amerikkan escape. but his beer's
more bitter, so he sips it instead. csi on the telly.
last month's hustler in the bathroom. pizza boxes
and cardboard plates tossed near the trash, in the corner
of the closet kitchenette. so i proposition the boy

with the protonradio link. he's loved older women
since he ws 17. what are we doing to our children?

my own lover 21. in a couple days. he ws so lost
on the single mattress under that cold window,
facing the white blanket, cuddling in thin sheets
how could i not want to hold him in my arms?

you slide the stinger in when it's grown enough
to hold sufficient poison. i've welts where you
touched me. arid feet. rocks of mars.

the protonradio boy is no woodheaded babe
he's been to the gingerbread house
got sick on the fenceposts. he thoughtfully
declines. doesn't need sex that much.
he has a line in his sandy haired beach.
his eyes are blue. he might be a skinhead.