Lament of the Hookah People

Tattered, ancient leather jacket.
Multicolored head, inside and out.
I could not see her.

Gold and red stars. Moons aglow.
The centurion faces the priestess.
The ancient rite is performed.

“You’re mine,” she says.
“And I’m yours,” I say.
“#Damnedstraight,” she hashtags.
And we sing a vow of Morphine and marijuana.

“What will you do with this love?”
“Cherish and respect it.”

But no.

Jealousies and accusations.
Yet still… days of mud and ink.
For a little while, peace.

And then,

A cry from afar for help.
Desperate action.
Mission accomplished.

No good deed goes unpunished.
The Boy Scouts forgot to mention that.

Jealousies and accusations.
Lies and games.

An ending.

Don’t date a superhero,
If helping others bothers you.

Don’t be a superhero
For its rewards.

April 3, 2014, Los Angeles

sad superhero F


3 thoughts on “Lament of the Hookah People

  1. One Love says:

    …”he conquers once in a while the love of Medusa.

    Or Medusas.

    He calls it “his quest.” I call it his fate.

    But who cares at this point. Medusas are all the same. He’s a Medusa too…”

  2. Echo says:

    but because he came to me with a heartfelt dripping finger, awash in a pulse and stream that is not mine and asked me, is woman universally experienced? it was not because he would forget to call me the days he promised were “mine”. the entire assignment of phases of play or yes/no binary assaults where a schrodinger-like kiss is beautiful for me at one moment and post bc pill a harrowing nail scraping clawing hormonal battle always alone, these moments all the trappings of poetry better swept under a medical examiners rug. how it was he joined the disparate language of bdsm with a trained eye for reaction, with a soft and gentle heart, offended me. was he actually capable of listening with more than his

    it was not how he would arrive angry to boast about his rights as a gay male to forsake motherhood outright, but this, this gentle plea with messy hands like a schoolboy just set out after painting, his fingers still stained. this is the logic behind, the reason for, a man i have longed for, not the one punching out villians on the street and playing with the cops. this one, the one angry about his wet hand and missing link. he will always miss that link and speak to me about joining with the unjoinable, the angry about words villians where cops defend their arguments to lovers long changed to other roles. while they all argue for valentines day, speaking a soup of pointless….i watch as that same noise is love instead, spills from his mouth and i join that stream, for life, for vida, for ever and don’t bother to be a nag about “washing his hands” i simply wait, i don’t have the same problem as these other witches, i know how to find a good broom and clean the fuck out of society. one rejection at a time….loving the universalized woman. Girl.

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