Archive for the MK Chavez Category


Posted in MK Chavez with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot


I Stepped on your Feet and you Called me your Favorite Dancer

Everything pivotal no matter what
the eyes see so much pointillism,
but our story is destined for facets.
I’m ready to have the fairytale
altered, we are as good as the golden spike,
and maybe we were the first tenement
and the first slum, but when your mouth met mine
it was vitruvian, we leveled
the place. I created us in large part—
a lithograph that was rubbed and rubbed
not useable until the cliff hanger,
though we had our moments—Reclining
nudes—our faces full of primitivism



The tracks curve here, your eyebrows raise your naked
face like the biting of  New York cold. Come on!
I say, there’s nothing to hide let’s strip, tease,

let’s turn things not completely around, let’s
accept things at a slant, just so, like the hat
on your head, one ear out, part of you would

want, part of you not, that’s the kind of fight.
We could live together next to the railroad
tracks, the 2:03  passing through, as our limbs

make snow angels while we sleep carrying forth
the daytime argument. We would finally
have something to blame for the blue hue

of our disagreements—Come on Baby—
rattle the change in  your pocket, I know you like
to hang out with sharp rocks. All I’m asking is

can I please get inside there. I’ve put on
my ruffle-bottomed swimsuit: proof that I am
a fine diver. Your lips are always parted

and I think that somehow I might someday
get an invitation to enter into
your rusted old ways, that dilapidated building

that I have sworn has an old fashioned meaning,
that brackish water—there at the center
of it all. I want to dip my toe in

to wade, the water licking ankle and up
my calf, to the tickle back part of the knee.
I want to make wet hair, make it

stick to skin, perfect doll curls in honor
of the death of diversions. The pool, too much
to get over, once you’ve been in, you’ll want

in it again, and again. Listen—I’m an old girl
but I can still do the doggie paddle, no longer fixed
on the future. Who cares about the shore?

Come on—The steam is coming off the tracks;
it’s time to let it blow, time to let that engine go.

MK Chavez @ the Rusty Truck Bitchez Brew

Posted in MK Chavez, VIDEOS with tags , on March 21, 2011 by Scot

My Name is Salome, I Don’t Mean to Complain but God has Cut Off My Arms…by MK Chavez

Posted in MK Chavez on June 28, 2009 by Scot

Me and Chiwein

Here—won’t you give
me a dollar for my dance.
I’m still
a beautiful girl. My mother
made me do it. I fake it
every time. They tell you
they love you
leave you
for some piece
of heaven. It’s better
to cut off their heads
while you still have a chance.

Shoot…by MK Chavez

Posted in MK Chavez on April 3, 2009 by Scot


the pink tongue of my desire
transpires to make new words
to describe our lips, which

together make conceptual art
a fever dream that utters
non-sense, builds heat
in the small of my back
the sleek tips of muscles touch
create flesh psychedelia
makes my heart beam day-glo
red pulsing heliotrope
in my throat

this secret that’s between
your mouth and mine, a revolver
a brazen fervor, a blind boomerang
the collision of our breath
makes the universe fall
when your hands touch my face
everything opens, leaves
me a convoluted mess
you give me this:

comprehension beyond flesh
a tiny piece of bliss

Meiosis by MK Chavez

Posted in MK Chavez with tags on January 16, 2009 by Scot


This is the second date. I’m thinking
of the dictionary and fellatio
and the fact that not much further down
on the page you find the word fellow
and this doesn’t mean much, but fellatio
and fellow don’t always go together.

I study his face, looking for some sort
of Geronimo in him, if only
he was a constellation of man,
someone to be counted on to do
something, but I’ve put him under
the microscope—

This is quite the expedition
we’re swimming here, small talk like
air bubbles. The walls of the restaurant
are periwinkle. I want to lean over
and say please don’t speak, I just so,
want a chance to undulate.

This date feels like a cell. I become
a spore, could sink. The intervals
of my breath float, midair, like pigeons,
the birds that people hate. He laughs
says things like “pussy

Note: Interesting. He took to cats
after he watched one kill a bird, its bloody
muzzle is called charming. I pretend to laugh
sounds like a cackle, “Isn’t it funny,” he says.
He named the kitty “Killer.”