pikey's profile

After reading through most of my poems, she said: “You sure do write about yourself a lot. And when you’re not, they’re all about those filthy cigarettes of yours” I leaned forward, brushed a few errant blonde hairs behind her ears, traced a line across her forehead and told her: “You don’t have to be jealous, I just don’t have the right words”

She’s sits on the couch cross legged, thumbing through a magazine article about ancient Egypt. If she had better parents, she would have been an archeologist. It’s her nature to dig, analyze, and delicately brush away anything settling. She turns another page While I construct pyramids for her to exhume. We speak in hieroglyphs allowing time to erode the nose from our faces.

In the basement, an electric saw whines guided by fingers afraid in the knowledge they have no business near such sharp and raw power. Their owner pauses for a tenth beer. From somewhere across the street, a blind patriot lectures his twelve year old son on the influx of the New York and Jersey “niggers” into our neighborhoods chasing welfare. I am certain he doesn’t own a job or a shirt. “Kid, they’ve turned Belmont street into a little ghetto” “My mother lived on that street, now look at it...

Seven in the morning. She’s sitting in her pink robe on the couch listing family who’s survived, cried, and died From cancer, Annie found a lump one afternoon. Three months later, she is down one tit and feels removed; half a woman walking it off, In the relay for life, uncle Dave was a minor league base runner dipping chew until they removed most of his lower lip. He died of old age at home in the dark With the shades drawn, grandpa Joe passed morphine blind and whispering the name of his fi...

I was sixteen years old. Back then, as far as i knew all women preferred it in the face.