Smoking By Gisella Klein
Spite says, “play.”
Spite commends my wicked bold eyeliner,
and tells me to lay on the smoke.
Spite laughs like velvet and grenadine
when my gaze lingers too long on
a striking someone.
Spite suggests I armour up,
that it’s much better to be a warm gun
than the thing that’s shot through.
Spite keeps me soaring above the pit
in an ill-conceived game of pinball.
I take her hits instead of darkness–
I prefer her blinding neon.
Spite’s blood and spittle,
salt and stars,
musky, midnight perfume.
That glint of, “risk taker,”
The liberation of nothing else to lose.
But she can’t spare me from writing another poem about You.
If only saunter and sex could salve all Love’s wounds.
These days, the Savannah Missed Connections is doing a brisk business in NSA sex postings (you know, just the kind stuff all those new regulations were intended to do-away with…) but the fact that the forum is still infrequently unregulated means that all forms of writing manage to survive. In addition to Bison Jack, there is now this writer regularly posting. Buffalo Jane?
