it was my birthday

I was fortunate enough to be invited to read at the Exquisite Corpse Annual Launchapalooza Extravaganza last night. I was also fortunate enough to be born twenty-two years ago yesterday.

I could not ask for a better birthday gift than to have my parents in the crowd, and to be able to read some of the words that I call poems.

That being said, here is one of the things that I call poem that I chose to read last night. For your enjoyment.

an assortment of kisses

one for the door frame, obviously.
another goes to the
Good Book, of which i have read
only parts. a kiss for each person

who has read the whole thing–
the parts about heifers and blood
and the long genealogies
splintering down from Adam

to the holy hands of Christ.
a kiss for the reel of film
my father frequents, a negative
image of my lips touching his,

and for my mother sitting up at night
reading books written by authors
that i hate, a kiss to say,
i am sorry i am not who you wanted.

a routine mouth to mouth
with a beer bottle–they have come
to expect it of me and how can
i refuse? likewise, i kiss a cigarette

and it kisses my lungs in return.
i kiss every girl i meet because
there is such mystery in the petals
of their lips, and for my effort

i have so many questions. a kiss for
the sun and for the moon, but from the moon
there is only a reflection of a kiss,
and i have spent much of my life

tempting that silver egg to hatch
life and kiss me back. i give a kiss
to midnight because it is like
stealing a kiss from tomorrow.

i peck a songbird’s lips and bleed.
then grow feathers in my brain
and leap from the roof of my house.
i hear a songbird’s song and bleed.

i kiss myself before i fall asleep
so that there will be someone
to wake up with. i kiss the pillow
and dream. pillows are terrible kissers.

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