it is the killing time.

the time for lungs to be lacerated with poison gas, the time of night and deadly kisses.

it is the time, i think, to sleep with authority as an impending marriage with death moves closer.

somewhere a bullet flies through the air to shatter the glass

and the wine spills out as if to denounce me.

there is so much blood in insignificant men.

it is the killing time.

the time to walk the streets in disguise and fantasy, to inhale midnight smoke to stave off the pangs of one long lost, the time to judge without authority.

it is the time, i think, to lie elegantly with wine-wet lips, as your eyes swirl black mists in my brain.

somewhere a bullet flies through the air to shatter the glass

and the wine spills out as if to embrace me.

there is so much emotion in insignificant men.

it is the killing time.

the time to speak without listening, to suppress and be suppressed, the time of pretty clever treasons, to conceal without restraint.

it is the time, i think, to hide my soul under layers of night, as a strange man whispers poisons in my ear.

somewhere a bullet flies through the air to shatter the glass

and the wine spills out as if to release me.

there is so much pain for insignificant men.

*Dedicated to Joanna Xiao. 

i have no ability to sit still, for that is not how i was made.

i am not a lady of purity or fine strength, rather a wild, ephemeral kind of being.

i laugh often and cry often, take those as will have me, and beguile them with my fertile charms.

i am sin, but a red-blooded neon kind of sin, not a sin that goes bump in the night, rather one that goes to nightclubs in sequins and lace, that laughs too loud and drinks too much, a sin without secrets, an earthy sin. 

neon is a stable element, but it comes in chaos red, which is how i paint my life. like neon, i am stable in my wildness, my confidence, my disregard. 

i laugh without smiling and smile without laughing. there is no other way to be. i am not authentic. i am cheesy and bold. but who doesn't like a cheesy bold girl? 

one day, they say, i will find myself and realize what a shallow solid thing i am. at that, i smile my endless clever grin and think that i know what kind of thing i am. i am shallow and neon bright and sinful, but without me there cannot be comfort and laughter. 

the world has had enough of its professionals and thinkers. it is the era of whores. 

you sit in judgment on a high chair

shrouded in black robes, your eyes unreadable behind the demon's mask.

only your silk lipstick mouth can be seen.

is that why

you find it so easy

to condemn without understanding?

without feeling?

without thinking?

because you are someone

and i am no one?

because you wear the face of a jackal

and i the wounded antelope?

in your court there is no justice

only scorn

and innocent blood.

it is an eternal song for us,

the swirling of the clouds and the blending of the sky with city and light.

the almost-imperceptible taste of sweet cream on the tongue.

our hands clutched together on the fire escape, my caramel on top of your dark teak.

two sets of brown eyes staring into that heaven, watching smoke meld with blue and white, crusaders striving for the highest echelons in that faded blue.

it lacks music, that song, but makes up for it in feeling.

love, you're a lemon drop.

sweet and sour, but mostly sweet,

hard sour crystals on the outside,

pale yellow goodness within.

you lie and say no, but your heart's made of gold,

once i lick off the crusty coating you'll see what i mean.

i never got a chance to tell you how much

i liked the curve in your arm when you cradled that gun.

guns are all the same to me, little destiny killers, little pockets of death in a world filled with life.

but i must say, seeing you with that horrible thing, cheek leaned against barrel for a moment, brown eyes narrowed in concentration, makes it seem a little whiter, a little more pure.

you tell me i worry too much and i don't live every moment and that i really, really need to work out, but god, please, let me just watch you forever,

you work of art, you inspiration, you imperfect tragedy.

i'm not one for shoes on the bed, but those are the whitest sneakers i've ever seen.

almost as white as your blinding teeth.

damn, i say, damn, you're beautiful.

yours is not a grow-on-you kind of beauty but a tall, confident, sucker-punch-me-in-the ribs-kind of beauty.

hidden meanings in every word, dark fire in your eyes, brilliant white on your teeth and feet.

i bet you taste better than liquor, and i bet your innocuous smile will get me three times as wasted.

it is a fact of life, i was told when i was small, that those who follow the rules will succeed.

and yet, no matter what i do, i feel myself slipping farther and farther away from where i wanted to be.

may i ask a question? have i not given enough, sacrificed enough, for mincing steps and perfect arpeggios, for sapphire eyes and white-blonde hair, for perfection, for love?

but then, who wants to love a china doll? what man would dare try?

so if i cut my hair and paint my lips, do not despair.

it is a quest of sorts, a quest to find the soul of the girl underneath that porcelain shell.

young blood, new money, shirt more expensive then your car, drinking fancy liquor, being a smart-mouthed good-looking silken-tongued wisp of a boy.

does it hurt knowing you were so wrong about me?

does it hurt knowing that you can't hurt me anymore?

do you ever think about that time in school where i kissed you and you shoved me and called me a fuckin' fag?

good, 'cause i don't. it's not my fault you weren't man enough to accept me for who i was. it's not my job to forgive and forget.

but i'm a nice guy.

so i'll shake your hand, smile

and move on.