This poem is going to be in my chapbook, which will be out very soon. I also made it into a song and put it on myspace. I accompany it here with a drawing of my heart getting drunk:
My Heart is a Professional Hurricane
after a poem by Carlos Williams
He tells me the job is seven days on, twelve days off.
He doesn't get paid much but insists that the work is rewarding.
He steals my food and sleeps on my floor; he spends his pay on booze.
He had been prowling monster.com for months when he met you.
But then he heard your voice and said, "Hallelujah! Let's get whiskeyed."
And he peeked at your ear and threw his chair at my sternum,
and he felt you walk upstairs, and the place went dark,
and my ribs stopped moving for seven seconds, then shook for twelve,
and he felt you walk back down, wearing your hair like a heavy crown,
and my lungs' echoey hallways got used as the town evacuation center.
He is remorseless. He must have had four years of desensitivity training.
You cannot stop him by predicting him, or by looking at the floor.
You cannot stop him from drunkenly shouting about your rocky whisper.
He is convinced--I guess by shadowplay--that you've got these really big eyes.