My name won’t make it to December or to the

return of Christ.

My name won’t make it to one hundred grand.

My name won’t make it.

My name won’t make it to the headlines.

My name won’t host the parasite.

My name won’t make it to Ohio and

back again.

My name won’t make it to bingo.

My name lives in the fast food crowd,

the pork grease and visor heads.

My name lives in treasure trash,

in marigold pollen, in Shakespeare’s armpit,

in mail room gossip.

My name lives in sperm debris

and fennel.

My name belongs in taxi fare

and cocained credit cards.

Oh my name, my name,

What’s in a name?

Trying to

right the wrongs

and write the

songs and

holding me

back by

a thread.

Do you have a 

knife or a

knife?

Growing up, my mother said i was a hard person to love.

Ive shared this idea with the men and they agree,

but assure me it’s worth the trouble,

if they really stop

to think.

Some women are marble statues,

pure and white and nipple-less.

They leave no scar on the world or

foam at the top of the mug.

They marry young,

and never vomit

out of a moving car.

I am hot to the touch,

and wet to the taste.

I let the candle replace

itself.

I am hard to love, indeed.

***ROUGH DRAFT***

The whiskey fang is in my skin

and now blood is involved.

I’m the most i’ve ever been

in this life space, though,

i haven’t always lived

in this life

space.

The whiskey fang is in my bones

and now it is midnight for the

fifth time in a

row.

I kept a fish alive

in a tumbler

glass until it

didnt swim

and now it

is no longer

living or

swimming

at all.

The whiskey fang

is coming.

it’s right behind me,

it’s unbuttoning my

blouse,

it’s tying my

shoelaces

and all i

can do

is not

bite

back.

The whiskey fang is in the gut rot,

the pink of my tongue and every

utter organ.

My lip curves slave for warmth,

and I will forever bow to brown and amber.

Laughable skin.

There to

grow the

moles

and pull

the curtain

back on

blood.

There to

flake and make

more skin.

Skin

laughable skin.

Let’s play the sweat sauce

game. Let’s play the

sweat sauce game

right now.

Let’s play the sweat sauce

fucking, til we cant stop

fucking game

now.

Let’s play the ooze slime

game. Let’s play the

ooze slime game

right now.

I haven’t played in a while,

I’ve been a good little thing,

I’ve kept my legs tied together and

my backside ain’t got

no scratches.

Let’s play the

sexed up, let’s

play the sexed up game

right now.

I’ve been a good little thing,

I’ve kept my legs tied together and

my backside ain’t got

no scratches.

Let’s play the

sexed up,

let’s.

**THIS SET OF WORDS IS SET TO MUSIC, SO EXCUSE THE RHYMING. I NORMALLY NEVER USE RHYME SCHEMES. ONLY WITH LYRICS.**

my ex husband has the

sperm and has the knife,

he has the dream and the

green eyed, thirsty

young new wife.

i’ve got the paper trail

and plump soft waist and

half-grown tail and

he has the Jacks and

the Finns and

the fight to be

right.

i white-flagged him

in the end and fled

our home,

i left him with

ribs and with

kidneys and meat still

on the bone.

my ex husband has the

sperm and has the knife,

i have disease telling me

that someday he’ll

maybe know.

***

american lovers,

even cunts have copay.

paid well to do well

things,

like lying to children

about smiles being more

than just teeth in a

cage.

***

I have not seen her,

have not met her,

your new her,

but I hear she’ll suck

suck the nickel

off a nickel

as you

watch the

televised news.

I heard her eyes are the

greenest sonsabitches

in the room and her

tits always have

the last

laugh.

I should have sliced

you open

when I had the 

chance with the 

knife in my hand

and the knife

in my mind

but you see,

I’ve lost track

of where you are

who you are

who you were and

I’m in no mood for

dirty research.

I often write within margins of published books with text on the page so that I don’t have to stare at asylum-white sheets of paper and panic when I can’t exert the words. Blank paper is angry and pure. Blank paper is a rape victim, and a silent one at that, making the act of writing all the more dissatisfying.

I didn’t choose this, you know. I was going to be an actress buried deep in Hollywood pussy. I now feel starved when without the paper and the pen and the ideas whirling inside my head like an apologetic tornado.  Pharmacies and supermarkets sell multitudes of pens and notebooks for such little fare, the sizes and colors endless.  Sellers do not realize they’re enabling them, the writers, with their 99 cent books of emptiness. How many failed novels were written on the pages of a Mead product? Thousands, maybe millions. But they’ll keep selling, keep feeding, keep pushing the writers and their dreams of making it. The most powerful drug dealer I know is a clerk at Staples named Chantal, a part time business school student living at home with her mother and dying grandmother in Washington Heights.

To Be Continued…

Be wary of kindness and handshakes after 5pm.

***

I am neither a chocolate drop or a cherry tree.

***

Street spit and

cat call and

go home and

fuck your wife

silly.

***

Buried booze.

***

Unsold bookcases are the world’s greatest tragedy.

***

Don’t say it.

When you get the urge to say it

squeeze your spleen

bulge your eyes

fart, vomit,

lie.

Love is a four letter word.

***

alcohol is a fly-over state.

***

Even your mattress and tits can’t help you now.

***

closets are shit

just like

the brain is shit.

store a lot of shit

in both,

and forget.

When you die,

your loved ones

will sell the

shit for

money and

everyone will

be

happy,

rich or dead,

the best two

things to

be.

***

Murder knife?

Twenty-five to life.

***

Pretend you are.

Now know you’re not.

I face beginnings narrowing in on jawlines,

bones, teeth and other assorted hardness,

I am preparing my next knock out, my next swing,

my next jab and cut.

Oh, it’s coming, baby.

***

The words are there,

the words aren’t going

anywhere, and yet

my mind is fumbling

and has forgotten

I have ten fingers

and two eyeballs and a

lump in my throat and a

pen in my hand.

and to write a sentence

on the page

is like sex

on the pavement.

Good, not great.

.

So it was “I <3 You” night @ Sidewalk Cafe, last night… This is the venue I usually read my poetry at.  I <3 You night means you do a ‘cover’ of another ‘regular’ musician or poet or talent @ Sidewalk. I actually ended up singing a Richard Ringer song, because that is where we met and the song is about me. It was really weird… But really fun. But I’m going to try and start taping my poetry too and get that up here.

Enjoy. 

The Night Shift.

Sex served sunny side

up

by Mr. Male Ponytail.

Food and wine arrive

and enter the

mouths and small 

intestines.

A greased machine for 

the drunk and fat.

Menus and forks,

Menus and spoons.

Combinations. 

Silverware, specials,

soups, salmonella,

sausages.

It’s 4am and 

male ponytail

shouts, “last

call.”

I order the 

ending.

Dry, with

a

twist.

Oh, 

and a 

ribeye.

Thanks.

*UNFINISHED*

“West, I want to go West.”

“I’ll by the ticket, you bring the long dark hair.”

“I can manage that.”

He had the ticket sent to my address,

one way to Seattle. One stop.

Detroit.

I arrived at 10:30pm.

Had an hour to kill before

the transfer.

Detroit is a dreary airport,

full of drunks and business men and other

unhappiness. 

They smiled at me as if they

figured I frequented the place.

As if I belonged in the darkness,

with the other rat-eating

night owls.

I asked a short, balding fat man

in a security uniform,

“Hey, is there a place a girl

can smoke around here?”

He had dinner drippings on his

collar 

and white waxy flakes collecting

on his shoulders.

The mouth was full of

bad breath and rotting 

gums.

Through the mumbles 

I made out,

“Yeah, O’Donnells. 

Just go strauight down this hall and turn

left. You gotta buy something though,

or they ain’t let you smoke in there.”

I didn’t thank him,

I took off down the corridor,

the fix so strong.

Politeness is a learned trait.

I found O’Donnell’s and walked 

in. I hadn’t smelled the stench of 

supper smoke since my dead grandmother’s

house sold.

The burgers and pickles and fried

clams mixing with the smoke 

greeted my buds;

smell and taste.

I felt comfort. 

I took a stool at the half-empty 

bar and reached for the porcelain

miracle. The ashtray.

“Not so fast, Princess,”

She appeared with thick orange lips

and blue slime sliding off her eyelids,

collecting in the wrinkles

above her cheekbone.

“You gotta order something

‘fore you light. ‘s Rules.”

“Whiskey.”

“How y’ take it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She clucked her tongue

and swayed her big jiggling ass

to the house whiskey and

poured a droplet into a 

tumbler. Neat.

“Eleven Even. Plus tip”

I paid the gal,

tipped her poorly,

and held the drink to my nose.

Something about the smell of the

cheap whiskey

just added

to the sadness

of the masses,

so I drank

it quickly.

What a super hero.

******

All I ever plan on owing you is gas money.

(I am writing a series of love letters to past loves/lovers which will be distributed anonymously throughout NYC. This is the only one that will be made public.)

Richard,

I am sorry for leaving.

You wore glasses and velvet blazers in June

and were kind to me when my mother was not.

You were my island,

an escape from the hard.

I loved you,

but in a way that was not adequate.

We got lost in Portland and circled

a train and its tracks.

The rest stop I peed in was fit for you and I.

Do you remember the setting sun?

Or the East Village walk in the rain?

I met you strangely.

You had no money for business cards,

so you wrote your number on a napkin.

You would not tell me your profession

or name

until the next time.

I saw the mirror,

and am still reflecting.

Love,

Gina Mobilio

These boxes lay across wood floors like tile,

a mosaic of the places I’ve left and conquered and lost in.

I settle on my bed sheets and inhale my last year,

the lovers do not leave a scent,

but a letter and a strand of hair.

The airplane is the saddest vessel.

Desert and rain are on trial, 

I have heard both sides and formed my opinion.

I am siding with the men in suits.

This loneliness is bloated,

and the only cure is to make love to a 

stranger in a city that is not your own,

to let the skin and tongue bathe in foreign

tongues and skins. 

I cannot understand my attachments,

my arms and legs and ears and eyes,

always wanting more, always needing more

touch

and

assertion.

I fear I do not recall the beginning.

I said it at the ending,

This hope will be used on someone else.