This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

She Only Loves Me When The Bars Close

she only loves me when the bars close
and no one else is willing to take her home
spilling drama Ibsen would envy
about this girl or that boy
who said or did something
we must deal with right away
even though the guilty parties
aren’t around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back door
as my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddon
soon to destroy us all
fights past all my contradictions
to slip into my satin sheets
and call me to bed
no matter whatever late-night duties require my attention
I just want to sleep
without a stranger’s tongue in my mouth
drift off to sleep alone and contented in my loneliness
without her arms wrapping envious tendrils around me
desperate for my attentions, tongue or cock
to remind her she’s human and wanted

I’ve lived my days without a woman
to make me feel like a man
just give me a soft pillow
and dreams of past lovers
or memories of travels
or fictional visions of potential futures
and I drift into dreamland
with a smile until dawn
but she calls me to bed
to wrap myself around her
hold her like all the lovers she’s left behind
I am not them
I am more than a body
with a hungry organ seeking a cathedral
to play my music in
while the seats sit empty of religious devotees
I don’t need the fictions
that tonight is the night two twin souls find each other
one drunk on whiskey
the other loaded up with gin
making long island iced tea love
ripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breath
to stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothes
throws her panties to floor
as if the only key I needed to her moistness
was the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motions
the thrust and throb of hips
from wise women who could have taught
a hundred thousand men
the way to love properly
I have been a student of masters
who still make my head spin
years after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verse
by the way it flicks and glides across a clit
as if poetry was not the sound of words
but their movement in space
another who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bed
finding the best place of all
was an overloaded dryer
bouncing off-balance
while the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hours
another who taught me the way to find perfect rhythm
is to pretend you’re a jazz trio
accompanying a polka band
while the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skins
takes intention and concentration
but their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lips
pops a pill to ease herself
pulls close my muscles
and wants the better parts of me
to fill her
but when the competition is eighty proof
I see no reason to trespass on her intoxication
I want to love her
but her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbs
rubs below my belt
to awaken what she thinks she wants
and opens her anime eyes to my otaku desires
but I’ve seen the way this ends
and no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the tale
I am more than her cartoon perfect playmate
I’ve seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Browns
only she’s left unsatisfied and oblivious
while they go off to find
little red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destination
instead of somewhere one wants to live
pay a mortgage,
build a white-picket fence
and eventually retire
we’ve all gotten postcards
from those who’ve been there before
and the mystery has become a cheap tourist trap
we only visit for the novelty
of saying we’ve been there, done that

she spreads her legs
to spill honey
but she’s only catching flies
so I zip mine up
and sleep on the couch
by myself at least I’m with someone who loves me
for what I dream of
not what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars close
only calls after 2 a.m.
and I can tell her time zone
by checking the clock
each message begins with slurs
about missing me with extra “s”s
and how much she hates me for not calling back by three
but how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves me
whatever my name is tonight

she curses my lovers
points at their photos and says they’ll never love me again
but that’s not why I keep them
they loved me once
and that’s all I have in the end
she hates my wall-hanging lovers
because she hasn’t been one of them

she doesn’t remember
the night I let go of these rules
slipped part of me into her
and watched her writhe with joy
as her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and over
she asked me the next morning if we fucked
they way you’d ask someone
if they’d read a news story
or seen a movie
or cleaned the rain gutters last year
if she can’t remember
why remind her

I’ve fucked for fun
and for curiosity
but not to be forgotten
I don’t need any more stamps in my passport
and I’ve visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars close
but I don’t serve what she’s drinking
I only save her a barstool
pour water and soda until she’s so drunk on her own vintage
that she doesn’t know what year it is
drifts off to sleep in my arms
only then is she finally honest enough
for me to trust her
only unconscious, still and silent
do I believe what she has to say
only then
when she can’t contradict me a thousand ways
I whisper what she wants to hear

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