Climaxes & Joints


After leaving the parlor, my ink still bleeds pomegranate

sunrise over you your own best thing onto the inner hem

of my white cotton-blend tee.  Maari smokes


Marlboros ‘cause she can’t stand the length of history

it takes to smoke the American Spirit Jodi offers

her on our sidewalk break. Second-hand smoke


feels up my cleavage & greets customers like the fury

of a Tiger Woods’ fist pump, catches the raven-

haired boy with bangs in a Doors t-shirt & skinny


jeans off guard in front of Osakas, where I frequent

& order jasmine rice with ornately painted chopsticks—

the kind my sister Lisa likes to stab into her imperfect “Love


is a Racket” brunette bun. I’m totally into OPI® nails

& Pureology hair since my boyfriend Juan, a poet from L.A.

who used to DJ at The Moon’s Latin Night Sweats,…

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