Paul David Mena

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.