Poetry on the theme of Razor Dance
sharks infest these waters & no one believes
me when I tell them this bar once was hip. it was
hopping. there were peeps all over & you had to push
your way through crowds to get a pitcher of Pabst or Riverwest
Stein. well, not you. you didn’t have to push your way through
cos you got the corner seat right near the women’s bathroom &
you probably planned it all out. to sit near the women’s bathroom cos
you were randy & an ex-
Marine, & later, much later, after we’d fucked, you told me, I want
salt-peter. you wanted to do something about your cock & your needs
or you wanted me to think you wanted to do something about your cock
& its needs. & it all made sense even later, much later, after I’d gone to DC
& back for a feminist rally & all the way on the bus there and back even
I could only think
of you & your cock & my needs.
but that’s not what made it made sense… the bar’s no longer
hip & I go back there every now and then & they remember me there,
the bartenders. the old men. they welcome me & my needs. they want my
needs. they have needs themselves but mine still consume them & mine still
consume me
you know nothing of this, ex-Marine. you are married. you are divorced. you are
re-married. you have kids. you have a gut. you have no guts. your inner resources
are your own & you no longer need salt-peter.
it’s a shame cos I could still fuck for days, & I remember our wobbly legs all
cartilage pure cartilage after we came up for air. after we ate each other
up & the blood &
the blood & the blood & the blood