On Watching Deadwood

We bonded over “Deadwood.” I never met
anyone who got that show the way she
does. Who loves the fucking language, Milch’s
iambic pentameter and tragic
monologues, memories of the abuse
suffered by every cocksucker in the
whole fucking show, me and you and David
himself, straining under horse racing, death
of friends, his gift he tried to strangle with
heroin and every self-destructive
act imaginable rescued again
by Robert Penn Warren and the priest who
pled on death
bed to write about Saint Paul.

Out of all the fear, there arises faith.
Every story obtains a leap of faith.
How do I explain her but by the inexplicable.
She lets my energy penetrate her
Through flush, through stories, through words, through music

There is no statute of limitations
In Maryland now so anyone can sue
The monster of your youth and I did call
the fucking lawyer because a dead man,
no Wild Bill just a small man in a Windsor knot
once took me by the hand and pulled out keys
unlocked the gym doors and the closet
pushed me against something and breathed fucking
sweet breath, close shave, against me, rubbing my
eleven-year-old cock in the frozen
bite of the closet, cocksucker breath
like a madman, rubbed and no doubt came
in his boxer shorts his wife ironed for him
that morning.
Fifty years ago and still

the fear betrayed me in the nights
of divorce and offering pussy
but never hearts or once, only one time
and here you are watching “Deadwood” at bed
and listening to me, willing to take me
as I am, loved without hesitation
after your long years of narcissistic
cocksucking son of a bitch husband
who could have broken you down, destroyed your hope
but here I am to say, everything is now
possible because even for a whore

like Trixie there is Sol Star and even
for a son of a bitch like Bulloch
there, for a moment, was an Alma–
only the time for dutiful marriage is
over now, we are free of all that
and all we need to do is fuck
and love.

What are you looking for?