SANDY

by Jeff Chon

The man you’re with has
a type and you’re not it,
and everyone clucks
their tongues wondering
how he could choose those
others over you, as if
their hideousness was the true
crime and your refined
symmetry the only victim.

His painted ladies vicious
and sensual, grotesque and lurid,
revolting and seductive, distorted
like Egon Schiele heroines gnarled
and wrenched for all the boys to see—

None of them understand
love the way we do.
We are the last romantics.
We are the ones they ridicule,
we are the ones they pity.
We are the ones
who understand there is
no power white
enough no pussy
wet enough to make him want you.

So you and I will soar
above them waiting
for the chance to fall, hurtle
toward them as flaming dust, covering them
while they scream and burn
and curl up like spent matches.

Jeff Chon lives and writes from the the beautiful South Bay area, approximately five minutes away from Charles Bukowski's grave. He was most recently published in Word Riot and edits the litblog vis a tergo, which publishes super awesome writers every first and third Wednesday. The last inanimate object he spoke to was the Bruce Lee postcard on his desk, which he has been speaking to on and off for as long as he can remember. The one thing he did this week that makes him proud is keeping this bio from slipping too far into self-parody.