2 comments on “A New Theme: FOR SALE

  1. Farmer’s Market in America

    It looks like strawberry mile
    but smells like tomatoes
    Red, all the same
    Bright, loud, open: subsistence for sale.
    I like to hear what isn’t being shouted.

    I walked here, so I am sweaty, plain, and full of rain.
    A guitar plings amidst chatter and children’s screams
    and there is something more for sale.
    Role-play fills the air as we make it known what we pretend:
    there is more than one currency at the market.
    Genuine? For the produce, not the people.

    Apples, peaches, pears….no, these fruits aren’t forbidden. Walk on by.
    Choose the red fruits
    simply because they look, smell, and taste like heat
    Whether spicy or sweet
    they will not lie to you
    like people do.

    Genuineness isn’t just for vegetables.

  2. For sale
    2/18/14

    I spoke,
    loved,
    implored you
    to throw a smile
    my way,
    wink that flirtatious eye
    at me,
    the one that alights
    for any pretty thing it finds.

    But it wasn’t until
    I scribbled a raw verse,
    penned some spiteful prose,
    and sold my bleeding soul,
    that your jaded eyes brightened
    for me.

    I whored these wounds,
    prose-tituted myself
    for you, my muse.
    Each narrow-eyed lip-lick you teased,
    every ticklingly light finger-slide down my arm,
    all the sensuous lip-glides along my shoulder…
    It all yielded my lyrical pain
    that lullabied your lonely nights
    when you tired of me.

    You reveled in my words,
    rolled around in the muck and madness
    that dirtied me and soiled this soul.
    You savored the darkness you find so delectable,
    made a meal of this bitter dish.

    And now you scoop me up into a box
    with the other mournful masses,
    the sad sacks who
    tissue their noses red,
    and sob their cheeks blotchy,
    and dream of you,
    silently
    because they lack the words
    to give their misery voice.

    But this cardboard nothingness is liberating.
    I’ve withdrawn my song
    from you
    and am breathing into the dreams
    of this sorority…
    Finding every mirror of myself:
    the blonde, the redhead,
    you remember them all.

    These new words are liquid.
    They rain through the sky,
    and I baptize each of their wailings
    with a song,
    and mingle myself with every tear
    to form a comforting lyric
    that pulls its blanket of understanding
    up and over the crying,
    that wraps it in words
    that say, “I have shared these same wounds,
    I have shed your same tears…
    I will give you these words
    and in exchange you will nod assent
    that I’ll be ok
    someday,
    too.”

    So I offer these soothing sounds
    to quiet all their sobbing
    and stroke their hair
    like the sister they never had
    bound in solidarity and solitude.

    This heart is now closed
    to you.
    Doors bolted shut,
    signs pointing elsewhere,
    memories swept away
    like flecks of insignificance,
    because bankruptcy isn’t rich enough
    to sate me
    and my pain is no longer
    for sale.

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