The Things I've Done For Girls

I pretended to know
the verses to Christmas
carols for a chance
to see a Mormon
girl’s underwear,
or maybe to give
her something
(a not so Silent Night)
to confess the next week.

Another,
she was wrapped up
tight, in layers,
her young legs
trampolining under
blankets and towels
in an effort to feel
better about herself,
even if only for a year

while we were
crouched, hidden,
behind a hotel
bathroom door
in a receiving position
while the marching band
director searched the room.

The next
must have had a thing
for unimpressive oil
paintings; we made
out on a park bench
for at least an hour,
repeated gestures
back and forth
in an effort to make me
feel better about her.
I left her sitting there,
worrying
a hard candy in her mouth —
so pretty, that little pink oyster.

Congratulations

Winning a year’s worth
of pizza, I would celebrate
by filling the vacant face
of an electrical outlet
with the tail
of my blow-dryer
and going for a swim.

You don’t understand:
I have skinned fetal pigs,
cut the tail off a cat
(it was already dead, but still);
I’ve tied Barbies
to the branches
of a willow tree,
their plastic legs like
a diver’s, kicking air.

I could’ve been
a successful
serial killer.
Not to say I can’t still be,
but I might be past
my prime.

Shopping List

Standing in the checkout line,
I cheated on my wife
with a woman in a wig.
She towered above me,
luminously powdered
lavender, her nose
softly crooked;
a sort-of living
version of Sargent’s
Madame X.

I was buying socks
with piano keys
and bowling alleys,
when my father asked me
to ask my mother
the name of a cat
they once had.

Chopping vegetables
for a salad, I stare
into the cavity
of an olive, and
I imagine the nameless
cat decaying,
its eyes like dried
blueberries sitting
in its skull.

Sparks

Blonde goddess on public transportation,
I would bow to you in an instant —
touch my knees to this dirty floor
in recognition of the half-moons
of your fingernails.
I am training
my eye to find beauty
in landfills, empty swimming pools,
the underbellies of cars,
and the gaping sockets in gums.
Around my heart is a lock
made of paper, and it is
beginning to smolder
and throw sparks;
it is talking to the pilot light
on my oven, and I come home
every night
to find my house
burned down.