Alex Stolis

We’re Accidents at the Scene of the Crime


It’s first light. It’s a bounced back e-mail; a shiny, spinning
lure avatar. Ask one question, I’ll tell you no lies, bind my
arms with the right words, back myself in the corner, fight
alone. Our hands are too full to begin with, grab the next
reasonable excuse, hold it close to your breast. We will no
longer believe in legends, myths, or fables of winged gods
or heroes who hide in the belly of a wooden horse. A shot
glass is large enough to hold our past. Drink it down, then
if I remember anything it will be your hair, jeans tucked
neat in boots, your fingers entwined with mine.


She knows. It starts with one honest mistake, tongue-tied
and bald faced. Here comes that sly smile on her unmade
mouth. I’m already guilty, stone cold and ready-made.


If I remember anything it will be your voice, how your scarf covered
your throat and the words; words that turned and pivot, a pirouette
of vowels and consonants. It’s just after dawn. We’re golden hour-ed
and scripted, we’re the center of gravity of lust and desire and craving.
You ask for my backstory and wait for the punch line. Wait for it to be
punctuated and paragraphed. It fits, folded, in your back pocket, a mini
book of prayers. I can’t hear your answer, the wind has picked up and I
am static, froze in place. Let’s be silent, let’s improvise. Let’s be verbs.


Skin, mouth, lips, leg across leg; crush, moist, hard, lace
panties, expectant. Over and over and under and beyond
our little death becomes the first door we break down.


Let’s be verbs. Let’s torch the sky and burn ourselves to ashes, dust
off our intentions. Fuck the Phoenix, just lie down here and be my
right hand confidant in crime. Be my witness to murder, my woman
with an alibi for every occasion. We’ll be free before reality can sink
our escape. It’s already too cold. My hands are inadequate, useless
appendages. It’s a matter of time before it snows and the wind turns
on edge; matter of time and you stop setting yourself on fire for me.


We’re accidents at the scene of the crime holding our breath.
We’re fragments of air, a whisper. You cover yourself with my
multitude of sin. Leave me wondering who will love you next.


I wonder if you're awake yet. I steal from Bukowski:
wonder if you slept well or did you stir when I came
for you. What did you feel when I imagined your body
pressed to mine? Did you feel my hand on your thigh,
my lips on your skinny throat? I steal from Addonizio:
first kisses and razor blades and unseen tattoos; can’t
even listen to The National anymore. You were in my
dream last night, surprised to be there. I cannot recall
anything you said. I wonder if it’s the same for you.


She presses her body against the wall. Retro-punk beats a low hush
against her thigh. She’s a half song from wet. I thank some random
god we’re all sinners. I can already smell the fire.


It’s all the same: the same sky or the same earth
or the same dirt. The same leaves trapped under
ice, under the same bridge. Truth hides between
lines; the same lines we crossed.
                                                                            I know
Nick Cave makes her wet. I slide her against a wall
at intermission, save a thought of you. We’ve scent,
touch, taste, sound of heels against concrete.
                                                                                            I see
how you’re supposed to erase contacts after a certain
period of time so they don't light up green; it doesn’t
hurt to have friends wherever you travel.

                                                                                      Drop me in
a box fold me cut me paste copy me we feel the same
heat on the same page; always.


We are combustible, flammable; need to scatter our senses. Hands
shaking lips flushed red absolute need hip to hip the taste of tongue,
the round swell of breast. Everything is in this space. Ashes to ashes.


No more writing for the dead. No more making
it up as we bang around. Tell me what you need:
a bound promise, a hand against throat, a hard
kiss and a slow finish. You taste smooth, slightly
bitter when you cum. I crave your body, a thumb
caressing nipple, lips parched cold; the pounding
of your heart in mine. Be quiet now. Not a sound.
Not a moan, a cry; nothing. Only skin against skin
against mouth against cock against clit. This is for
being alive; for ever. No more writing for ghosts.


I'm done. Ready. She needs more time, needs to fuck
a few more people. I pretend I'm okay, kiss her palm,
let the napalm roll under my tongue.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis.
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