My Aunt Is Hot » Poetry

Heavy Freight

Josh — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 21:54:59 +0000

They call him Goat to this day. I do too.
Nor-cal born and raised.
I don’t begrudge him and my Mom
getting together to call me Syl.

Sometimes he would leave
weeks at a time, riding freight trains
in between cars of hydrofluoric acid and diapers.
I imagined him with a bandana hanging off a stick.

He’s eventually return to my mom raising hell
about other women.
“Train Tramps” She’d call them.
I cowered in my room one night as they fought.
“What the fuck are we supposed to do while you trounce around by
train, town to town!”
She grabbed his ratty shirt, “Goat!”. Shaking him.
She tried to find sense in his face.
“This is what happens when you don’t take your medication!”
I learned to look forward to the smell of boos and railroads.

Sometimes he would return with things I cherish to this day.
He brought me a snuff box I keep earrings in.
“What would a 9 year old need a snuff box for?”
I asked myself some years later.

The trains finally got the better of him,
and he bled to death between El Paso and Dallas.

Empty Threats

Josh — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 21:49:09 +0000

Boil down inside this slack armed slaughter house.
Sharp finger nails run up a thigh,
leave scratches for other lovers, victims, to admire.
Hair pulls a head back.

Dreams of early morning melodies slashed like paper cuts.
Outside the bedroom door
a single cockroach waits.
Ready to run over our naked backs.
I promised to take both hands to her neck until
sound inside her stopped.

I try to sleep, sure that labored breathing next to me will continue.
Threats of soulless bravado.
A future together,
dashed.

On the dull linoleum floor
bent on humble knee,
she kneels to a princess.
I find it hard to think a blowjob
any less dignifying.

The Empty Seat

Josh — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 21:43:16 +0000

Long blond hair falls over the back
I’m accosted by her perfume as she taps away
Important messages 160 characters at a time
About the guy sniffling profusely behind her
She’s drinking some obnoxious drink
Preceded by double or half
Post fixed by atté or oca.

I know better than to be wishing for the lid to pop
Soaking those leggings she adores as pants
And the top that plunges into her neckline
Like her serial killer neighbor
Making space in his
Garage freezer

I wonder if that
“He was always so nice” neighbor
Finally had his way.
As I rest my foot
On the back of her empty chair.

A Duel

Josh — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 21:54:37 +0000

Found a gecko in the tub.
Little feet,
Webbed, running.
He blended with the tub.
Like me it needed cleaning.
Tried to coax the small
Liz…Rep…Phibian…
Out of that Dirty Tub.
With a tap of my hand
I started him running.
He didn’t, couldn’t have known.
But he ran towards
where all the water goes when it
meanders away from my feet.
Unwebbed fingers dashed to the drain,
covering the small void.
But like a human,
He slipped.
Through my fingers
In a last ditch effort to save himself
From the the tall, naked boy towering over
Him.
Torn.
I dripped some water down the
Bathtub’s belly button.
Maybe he’ll understand
This was not a place to hide.
My warning answered, I decided.
He’d seen too much..
I put the water on full and
Showered.

Redemption

Josh — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 21:30:51 +0000

Staring at the ceiling,
another writer on the pillow adjacent
Why couldn’t I have married a fucking physicist?
Late at night, towards the end,
we’ll leave each other
loveless
notes on the refrigerator.
Until, one day,
I’ll grab my toothbrush
drawer full of clothes
and that pungent green felt tipped marker
writing
while breathing it’s magic deep
“Were thru”
without so much a thought as to the grammatical crime
I’ll be committing
in her modern day Third Reich.
Lit, poorly
in the room that used to be “our kitchen”
deciding whether or not to
punctuate
my refrigerator epic of
fuck-u-were-thru.
She’ll burst in the door.
a bottle of Cabernet in her hands
“I got the job”
Callously
I’ll swipe away the words
I was so ready to commit to
just 5 minutes earlier
I’ll have to face the Minister of Propaganda
as to why I held my every earthly possession
in my hands
and am staring blankly at the fridge.

Across the Bar

Josh — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 03:02:50 +0000

Time slows, two find

each other, eye to eye.

the whole room lost to a gaze.

We played tag,

you’re it.

And I found my glances much like legs:

unable to run that fast.

It was denial of everything else,

the kind of thing a wave would ruin;

or perhaps an embrace,

in that old adage.

My fingers went to to pick up my drink,

afraid to be unsupervised.

when I looked back up for my friend,

and her playful eyes,

I found the room again.

This was just one of those things that I write everyone once in a while. I think it’s that I become more perceptive to these goings-on when I drink. Imagine me drinking at happy hour!