This poem was just published on readingground blogazine, a great online magazine managed by Breeding Ground, a collective of independent artists. You can read the whole thing here: http://breedingground.com/reading/
I can hear you typing in the other room,
the determined clack of the keys
and ever once in awhile
you let out little sighs of
satisfaction or dissatisfaction
with the black slashes on the screen.
I can hear your puffs over the violin bleating out of the radio
at my feet
in my little room
on the other side of the apartment.
You sniffle and mutter something to the cats.
And this is what we do.
We write, in the dark mornings
when only a few cars roll down our Brooklyn street.
We write without purpose
and with fear of a lifetime without the payoff.
Without being called to the show.
We write and we drink
and we drink
and we fuck.
Oh do we fuck,
half off the bed, you held up my head
and I tilted my hips ever so slightly
and watched your face when you came.
Right beforehand, when I was on top
I bit down hard on the flesh just below your shoulder
and heard your sharp intake of breath.
When I stood up later you told me how thin I looked
and it sent little shivers down my legs.
This pockmarked, tattooed marriage.
This cracked feet, bleeding gums marriage.
This soft-bellied, hard kissing marriage.
I would love to say that I don’t care what anyone else is doing,
thinking, working on, creating, fucking, buying, needing, getting
but I do.
It’s only natural.
But here, we close the wooden blinds, and for just a couple days
we keep to ourselves,
we bite and we laugh
and we laugh
and we talk
Oh do we talk
about what things will be like,
when we make it.
When we prove everyone else wrong.
We laugh with wide open mouths
and open another bottle of wine.
10 hours ago