granainas
I can
sweat
more
than you can.
I can
dance
through
more pain
than
you will ever know.
by the
end of the night
every
woman
in the
first ten rows
will
want to sleep with me.
and
for this
my feet
are slashed
by a
drunken mob
of gypsy
guitars
because
I stroke
the
silk smooth thighs
of their
sisters
before
a swooning crowd.
in this
bloodbath
of sangria
and swirling sequins
I taste
my father's proud pathetic pain.
but
I will never die.
I will
burn holes
through
this stage.
I will
make you believe
that
I am ready to pass out
before
launching into
another
burst of dance.
and
after thirty seconds
when
your lily white hands
are
tired of clapping
I will
stare
at an
invisible spot
six
feet above you
and
take
one
long
deep
bow.
flying
horses
it was some time
after the third
or fourth beer --
the one I knew
I shouldn't finish --
that the gentle spinning
turned to turbulence
and the streetlights
became fireflies
I could never catch.
outside my window
the crickets sang
knowing all along
that the flying horse
would never leave
and that the lights
dimmed promptly
at midnight
the exact time
that I had planned
to leave my body
and ride
above the traffic
above the turbulence
into the paradise
of sleep.
thirteen
perfectly
prime
it defies
superstition.
I slow
down
stop
and
stare
beyond
its two digits
into
the rain
and
beyond the rain
into
the number:
thirteen
tells
me
that
my luck has finally changed.
thirteen
is a
perfect dozen.
thirteen
is a
month of Friday nights.
thirteen
is a
guitar string
wrapped
around my longing
for
another song.
thirteen
is where you live.
skyscraper
I expect
it to crumble
any
minute now.
not
that I would like
to see
anybody hurt
but
a choreographed implosion
would
be so nice...
soft
and surreal
like
the kiss
I never
gave you.
(c)
1998, by Paul David Mena |