semantikon feature literature
Jan. 2004
Michael Crossley
biography
Michael Crossley is writer, actor, and poet and currently resides in Cincinnati, Ohio.
 
keywords
micheal crossley, cincinnati ohio, poet, performance artists, actor, some girls, every thug, kentucky

fetal position (love is strange)

“…Sylvia?”
“…Yea Mikey?”
“how do you call your loverboy?”
“Come here loverboy?”
“…And if he doesn’t answer?”
“I just look at him.”
“…And if he still doesn’t answer?”
“I simply say-
Did ya know the concept of freedom is barely credible
from the mouths of junkies?” There was a girl named Faith
& a dirty little boy shaking, cold on the Metropolitan bus,
crouched down on the heater still freezing…
“Good, Good things” He’s trying to sing a happy song with
his insides out. He painted a picture of eternal suffering on
the stall door, became the poster boy for migraine
headaches. It was dark, the air was cold, the air took on a
magenta hue, & every thing he said just kinda stuck there in
the air…
The girl he loved was in Toledo with a shotgun.
His pockets are broke as his heart, hung over.
“…Sylvia?”
“Yeah Mikey?”
“Someone call Saint Francis, tell him to let loose the birds,
my heart hurts and & am not crying
for loss, I’m just not expecting
any gain.”
Never a gain.
Never again.
-Used to be brand new before I felt like litter between your
sheets, and this old debris that got washed away with a
certain tribulation of my heart and all I’m left with is your
letters and a box of polaroids.
Where is my alley song now?
Surely it’s outshone it’s peril, worked itself into a drunken
Frenzy, got into a fight with its landlady
& left town leaving nary a photograph
          nor stain…
          Okay, I’ll make my mistakes
          while I’m still
          young enough to recover
          from them afterwards…
“…Sylvia?”
“Yes Mikey?”
“Damn it I told you to smile when you call me a bastard,
I never can tell when you’re serious…”
“…Sylvia?”
“…Yeah Mikey?”
“…What do you think of placing yourself on a personal
cross?”
“Come here, Demagogues!”
“…And if I do not answer?”
“-Oh Demagogue.”
“…And if they still do not answer?”
“Then I will simply sleep alone…
balled up in a fetal position with my arms around a pillow,
which is not her.
My words will find their place in a nexus of this city…
Just as sure as the prostitutes, then later the cocaine,
It’s all got its place, & right now that place is
In the company of a man I know not…”
Someone dropped a woman in the jukebox,
And my quarter began to play
…Oh you sweet southern darlings,
you will never live
thru your hock shop days
with your pawn tickets still stuck in your brassiere,
& stuffing your goods into your nylon dress daily,
just to call the salesman sold.
“…Sylvia?”
“…Yes Mikey?”
“How do you call the paramedics?”
“I simply say …Rape.”
“…And I bet they answer?”
Hell yea Romeo…”
“…But do they always answer?”
“…Oh baby.”
Someone had found his cigarette butts lying on the altar,
which proved that he was there. He was the poster boy for
migraines six miles from the nearest bar. He had been
cold and he was singing, a sweet song from his youth
he didn’t even know what had hit him, he didn’t know his
name for the song…He remembered a girl…Her hair in
his mouth while he slept…He was trying to focus but the
tears stained his sight…He thought he saw angels,
flashing…
                         -Only sirens.
he thought he heard her humming, a sweet lullaby from his
youth, it was only the drone of the city. And running a neon
stained hand thru his hair, he embezzled his own memories.
that song was genuine as a feeling,
he cut off a block to the left as a slow rain started to hit the
sidewalk. He’d remembered her name.
“…Sylvia?”
“…Yes Mikey?”
“Someone call Saint Francis, tell him to loose them
birds.”
“Baby, I’m tired.
I’m tired.”