I only go for girls
with dry wit
and sad arson hearts.
The ones I date
lick lips, dragging
Zippo clicks across
their chests, playfully
threatening to go
through with it.
And I’m a fool…
I’m a fool for that, just
a product of my environment.
I’m not into girls
that nibble on their
fingertips, determined
to sit because
the future’s stamped
with hopelessness.
I’m down with
the defiant chicks
that phoenix out
when faced with
foreclosure or having
their copper dresses
stripped.
I’ve learned not
all of us can be fixed but
I’m stuck on girls that repossess their own
destinies
even if that means
the whole
squatting-inferno-Juliet-Romeo-
poison-dagger-
thing.
I’ve spent dizzying nights
with girls who
giggle about their
crumbling lipstick architecture
and the bitter
Michigan weather. Wondering if a little fire
will bring them clarity.
As a kid, I dreamt of fixing
the derelict buildings of my
Midwestern city. All of which
have since been erased
by fire, work crews and misery.
I knew nothing about C/Ps or girls and less
about the real world.
But I’ve known
the sharp pain of heartbreak and disappointment well
enough by now,
that it barely phases me.
Sometimes, I’ve seen,
you have to sacrifice
a house full of dreams to
find your real home
even if that means
setting up camp on a
patch of new grass and re-imagining.