Sue Me. It's a Sex Poem. or How Slaw Survived May Haitus: Writing

You and me are a corpse’s cocktail
Punch drunk with hazy,
we dance floor make believe
Like our bones are
drenched in venom

We are rum and diet and a dance floor
Reality made sticky with sweat and So Co
and eyes darting at our hot public mess.  
Your hands
just might be my favorite mixer.

We are a Sex on the Beach or the bed or
the bathroom of this bar. 

Blue Moons at BBQs in Bloomingdale on Sundays
Broken bottles and empty boxes of wine
We lie to ourselves when we say this
is just recreational.

The occasional flaming shot electrifying
firecracker nights
Or sipped slowly so we sober this a little better
The bite of whiskey with Coca Cola
classic and predictable
Like this.

The changing tides of Manhattans
or Martini’s once sweetened
taken straight up
with age.  

We are Capirinias to get exotic
Mojitos to feel toxic
And Long Islands when we just want to stay local

You and me
are the late night happy hour special
An Extra Dirty Martini with no meal since breakfast
The Bitches Brew straight on till
morning’s Bloody Mary

Or the occasional High Life,
sipped in showers
Before porch sitting afternoon on couches
Smells placed potent under my beak,
easing me back to consciousness.

We are tequila’s burning plateau before elation

So drink me baby
Sing my veins back to electric
Taste my body raw and depleted
Drip into my shell
Whole and open

Our breath is silent-
as we tiptoe into creaking floor board bedroom
For another too-loud-for-neighbors night
Smash Hypnotiq hour glasses on nightstands
Pretending we never have to wake
to tomorrow’s hangover.