Stocker
My hand knows the shape of box
cutters, of cutting straight lines,smooth
lines, rows and rows like hairs
irrate and raised against raw white
planted on the shower wall.
Lines like when you stand back from the grocery aisles,
the pulsing highway, tic tac toe on my skin, the straight
lines, power lines straight lines smooth lines, they
long to touch.
Garbage lines of juice, always the worse
kinds of coffee-grey with cream, choked
with sugar, too busy to take the time
to read the sign recycling, only the really light kind,
creamy white thigh kind, beneath the elbow sugar kind
the worst kind of people drink coffee like that.
Lines of your ass crack, back-broke lift, dirty
you-can’t-handle-that look at me, like I look at you,
hand hold broomstick, pocket-poor I pour Spic
and Span on linoleum floor whisper, “I can
pay you n pretty-”
my hand-cut hair my only currency, my DIY cheap charity, gathered
from the strands left stuck on the shower wall, the value
of knitted bob which seeks neither to flatter nor frame face, cut
myself right beneath the chin, lines under jawline
hand to blade breath in neck,intimate
like the kind gained from a person when scrubbing
their shit smears. My hands know the urine droplets
from beneath the toilet seat, vanilla scented garbage
bags smelling like poverty perfume, warm from the ghost
of your butt, life punctuated by the piss breaks and Clorox.
‘
My hands know the homeless looking for wish-
pennies in a drained fountain stealing hopes
for heroin. They have traded art masterpieces, mere
playing cards, reduced, reused, and re
cycled, dealt with dirty fingers over stale beers, fingers
between elbows, bets
placed in cigarettes, my mouth knows balloon breath and
wonders if men practice walking like that,
straight back swagger, fingers grazing whatever’s
at their side, not looking back as if they don’t know
we are watching, hands pressed in legs.
my teeth hurt, around serrated
serenades, your sharp tongue leaves
staggering straight paths on inner thighs,
lips know the hope to feel your body
between socks and sheets and pant legs
and boxers, I reach for your box cutter but my hands
they only know spearmint gum-grey gobs on coffee
stained sidewalk, walking at your side, hands
at broom shaft straight lines lingering...
They call me box cutter.
I make my final c u t.
My hand knows the shape of box
cutters, of cutting straight lines,smooth
lines, rows and rows like hairs
irrate and raised against raw white
planted on the shower wall.
Lines like when you stand back from the grocery aisles,
the pulsing highway, tic tac toe on my skin, the straight
lines, power lines straight lines smooth lines, they
long to touch.
Garbage lines of juice, always the worse
kinds of coffee-grey with cream, choked
with sugar, too busy to take the time
to read the sign recycling, only the really light kind,
creamy white thigh kind, beneath the elbow sugar kind
the worst kind of people drink coffee like that.
Lines of your ass crack, back-broke lift, dirty
you-can’t-handle-that look at me, like I look at you,
hand hold broomstick, pocket-poor I pour Spic
and Span on linoleum floor whisper, “I can
pay you n pretty-”
my hand-cut hair my only currency, my DIY cheap charity, gathered
from the strands left stuck on the shower wall, the value
of knitted bob which seeks neither to flatter nor frame face, cut
myself right beneath the chin, lines under jawline
hand to blade breath in neck,intimate
like the kind gained from a person when scrubbing
their shit smears. My hands know the urine droplets
from beneath the toilet seat, vanilla scented garbage
bags smelling like poverty perfume, warm from the ghost
of your butt, life punctuated by the piss breaks and Clorox.
‘
My hands know the homeless looking for wish-
pennies in a drained fountain stealing hopes
for heroin. They have traded art masterpieces, mere
playing cards, reduced, reused, and re
cycled, dealt with dirty fingers over stale beers, fingers
between elbows, bets
placed in cigarettes, my mouth knows balloon breath and
wonders if men practice walking like that,
straight back swagger, fingers grazing whatever’s
at their side, not looking back as if they don’t know
we are watching, hands pressed in legs.
my teeth hurt, around serrated
serenades, your sharp tongue leaves
staggering straight paths on inner thighs,
lips know the hope to feel your body
between socks and sheets and pant legs
and boxers, I reach for your box cutter but my hands
they only know spearmint gum-grey gobs on coffee
stained sidewalk, walking at your side, hands
at broom shaft straight lines lingering...
They call me box cutter.
I make my final c u t.
