cutting

stick me with that sore dick,
one last time. (i'm left with)
sores bloom bright over my lips,
the doctor looked at me
sympathetically when i told him
'rose hips'

a stab in the dark, futile,
but pleasurable like the
slow ripping of a scab
i love a good thick scab
to tear up with the hairs
still hanging on, roots stuck
in the mud of the clot.
so you can stab me,
or not,
i've got my own ways around
live dick-
there are cucumbers in the fridge.

there are three pubic hairs
on my blush pink washcloth
in the bathroom down the hall,
i haven't washed it
yet,
that's all.
it's a long time until laundry day.

some child down the street
banged on my door last week,
i thought it was you
but it wasn't.
he knocked like your fist,
heavy and slow.
you left that way. you go.

go on. i'm tired or i will
be soon. it's a full moon
and the wind is pushing down
the weakest tree in our lot.
i took a stab at cutting it down
stab-- i got

it proving i don't need a man
to do that kind of thing,
but i sliced open my leg
and the emergency room (ringring)
doctor looked sympathetically
- asked if i wanted to call a friend-
'axe to grind' i told him.

it's a long time until the
house is put together,
there is a lot i can't do
in this weather, and every
time the phone rings
i cut myself on things
while i work out something clever.

m.m.e. march 07