The Minx_ Preview

This page is a selection of the 48 beau inspired love poems of the hopelessly romantic Pixie Prince which make up The Minx.

Please feel free to review the pieces and comment.

If you would like to own the entire chapbook,  it is available for purchase at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/tbanks11975

 

 

 

 

Shawn

It was always pull off the sweater with you.
Take off the socks.
In the backseat.
The right arm goes on the left door handle and the left foot is hooked on the rearview mirror.
Twister.
I don’t remember your middle name.
I don’t remember your birthday.
It was always pull down your pants with you.
Take your earrings off.
On a hill, in a parking lot, in a parked car that you borrowed.
Chutes and Ladders.
Devil may care about the police officer or the park ranger or the concerned pedestrian rubbing your foggy car windows.
I don’t remember how we met.
I don’t remember why I started or stopped dating you.
I remember the time I slammed my thumb in the door trying to hurry out of the car to get into the house before my grandmother knew that I was missing.

I remember the hickey that you gave me on my neck that didn’t go away for weeks.
I remember seeing your sister in college a few times but didn’t remember then how I knew her.
I don’t think you and I ever had sex in a bed.
I don’t think that you and I ever had sex lying down.
Which is funny because didn’t you use to work at a hotel?
It was always can you come out tonight, with you.
After midnight.
Just one summer.
Life.
And we sat on the burning hot hood of your car and watched the stars in the park and promised to be together forever over a bowl of herbal tea.
Funny, now that your sister is married I don’t remember your last name.
But you’re still with me, Shawn, you really are.
Every time my neck hurts.

 

Douglas
You sat in front of me in church and I used to drop my Bible so I could lean close to your neck and smell your hair.
Your hair smelled like happiness and family gatherings in the main room, laughing and drinking eggnog and showing home videos of our trip to the Poconos with the kids and the dog we took in because he was abused by his former owners and he was scratching at the back door when Doug JR. asked if we could keep him and we told him that we could.
You never once looked at me.
I know why.
I was taller than you and browner than you and poorer than you and there wasn’t any magazines with anyone like me on the covers back then and my two front teeth were way too big and I was too smart and too heavy and too goofy and had too many pimples and wasn’t blonde and wasn’t skinny and wasn’t a cheerleader or a theatre major or fascinating in any way.
I used to fantasize in slow motion over and over again about what it would be like to be Kelly McGillis in Top Gun and to tell you no. Turn you down in a crowded smoky bar bathroom.
You looked like him then.
And I wonder where you are now and who you are.
I bet you have grey hair around your temples from stress -from all the stress of pretending to be whatever corporate mogul you pretend to be so that your wife can have nice plates and nice glasses on a dining room table where you and your two kids never eat. Two kids you never see. No dog. And I bet you’re tired and I bet you’re hungry for something more than everything American life has to offer. I’m sure you have the picket fence and the lovely church home where your donations are the biggest ones and so many happy, happy festivals for family at your summer home hosted by the brittle beautiful skeleton of a headlining TV show trophy wife.
And I hope your life is better than this.
I hope you drive a truck and wear flannel and sing karaoke in a bar off the freeway and have tattoos under a long burly beard.
I hope on your vacations from driving you are sitting on a beach somewhere, strumming a guitar with your toes in the sea.
I hope you still look like Tom Cruise but just not as crazy around the eyes.
I hope I happen upon that beach someday and sit down next to you and get to lay my head on your shoulder.
And smell your hair.

 

 

 

G.C.
He only calls me when he’s called every other woman in Ohio, including his mother and sisters and none of them seem to want to talk to him, or they are too busy, or he just gets their voice-mails on their mobiles and at their homes and he has already called Moviefone and the Weather network and he has dialed a few people accidentally hoping any woman would answer the phone and talk to him for a while even if she was forty, or fifty or seventy, as long as she sounded good enough to make his dick hard and dial tone after dial tone he hunts down a voice and he has even called a few of the 900 lines to talk to men who sound like women and listens to them breathe and laugh and he feels so much taller and wittier but he hangs up on them before they ask for his credit card because he has no money for that in his account and nothing is working right now and he needs a release and he is lonely and he has a girlfriend and a wife but he never wants to talk to either of them because they get on his nerves and they always want something and their voices grate on his mind and nothing is ever enough and he just wants someone to make him feel good for once without having to do anything to get it and he is so stressed out and desperate when he remembers that he has one other number that he hasn’t tried, that he hasn’t called in months, or years  because we really have nothing to talk about, nothing in common, we don’t live in the same state or do the same work  or like the same foods or movies or music and we aren’t really friends but we had sex twice in the late nineties and if it finally boils down to it he hits me up.
We talk for hours.
I feel like Mother Teresa.
He feels like God.

 

If Bonnie had met Ralph
If Bonnie had met Ralph,
She would have had a house.
A house in the woods by the big oak trees.
Her second one of course.
Her first one would have been in the city-
Right next to the theatre, right next to the adoring fans
Every artist longs to have.
She would have learned to dance the Tango that poor, poor Bonnie, girl.
She would have lived forever glamorous
In silent film noir
But she moved too fast, just a second too fast
Jump, Jumped, Jumping into any outstretched arms
Mindless maniac, aimless savior
Nothing to eat will make you weak, I know, it’s hard.
But five seconds later, just five seconds later
Good ol’ Ralph would have sauntered by-
Ralph with the dreams and ambitions
Steady, decent, loving Ralph,
Who maybe wasn’t as exciting and
Maybe he limped a little but he
Was the supportive, marrying kind.
What they like to call a “good guy”.
She would have had a house, Had Bonnie ever met Ralph.
A house in the woods by the big oak trees.
But she opted for making the papers-
Jump Jumped Jumped onto the criminal scene
They never held hands, Bonnie and Ralph.
She would have learned to dance, possibly sing.
They never even locked eyes. Not one single time.
She moved too fast, just a second too fast
Poor Bonnie was doomed to die.
She had fallen for dumb ass Clyde.

 

 

 

 

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