National Poetry Month 7: Playing Games

Playing Games

Jack Garcia

My mouth says, “Play with me,”

a sentence composed

of consonants and vowels

and the whoosh of air in between

the ticking of my tongue and teeth,

affected by the round of

my mouth. Lips that are good                                

at kissing or giving head,

but not so great at whistling;

nothing comes out my lips

but air, cold and biting like winter

winds that rip 

my lips.  Lips that get too chapped,

no matter how much Vaseline I rub

on them in the mornings,

sticking like the peanut butter

I lick and suck off the spoon,

my little skin flakes like a frilly fringe framing

my teeth.  Teeth filled now with metal

dots (like dice showing snake eyes)

where once were cavities,

where once were metal

braces, for two years and two months,

the brackets snagging on 

my lips when I smiled.  I smile

even when you hurt me, or worse,

when I hurt you.  I praise, I wound,

I profess many truths I don’t believe

anymore, giving lip service to prophets,

lovers, and gods like vomit from

my mouth, swilling in the toilet

when I’ve had too much to drink.

Greedy and deceitful, mine is a mouth

which has often lied… lies so comforting

I wrap them around me

like a fringed blanket to keep

my mouth from quivering in the cold

as you roll snake eyes and land on Park Place.

“Yow owe me 1500 dollars,” I say, chewing coyly

on my hotel.  You shove rainbow money into my grinning mouth,
choking me with my own hidden agendas like the tongue I can’t roll

into a taco but, boy, can I roll it over you.