material
but this is where i was, Michael.
skank of breathing my own skin,
wiping dirty windshields. opening m&m bags,
$10 cabs.
locked in. car windows cracked.
peeing foolish thoughts into a bush,
dis-connected from worlds,
‘neath an alkaline sky
strangely buzzing with night lights humming.
nobody knows how many
eggs i’ve swallowed. they are
somehow (mis)taken by my
calculated smile,
by a thing restrained, not
contained. my abdomen
has lived for a very long time
spouting picean horoscopes,
migrating through false loves,
paddling through winter hatreds.
let’s be clear. a hundred houses
of taloned claws is happening
for me, not to me. my mouth is a
black swallow, a smoke show
incensed with clarity and acceptance,
I wing daftly without confusion or chaos
pausing lightly here. then there,
paying bird cage gratitude
for all humans with open doors.
[for TSM #126]
salivary glands are deeply ingrained,
thoughts reinforced early in years . . .
fill the mouth with your enemy. swallow
what smells foul. hunt for what
you need. acceptance
is the way of a fox. forgive
a fox for flight, for carrying a flacid
feather between gritted teeth.
this is also who you are. no
fool. you’re learning how to navigate
filth, soft-footing on.
[for #125 TSM]
it’s always cold like this and that’s why you’re here
eternity’s snug, given sheets, given i make you warm me like this
i did meditate on the storm for so long that my leg hairs grew long and black
and i was wrong (remember my face sunk with joy when i cut them?)
i’m not making it up ~ the sun wraps around tangled branches ~ and you,
you love me like this, like a light so exact i see the animals i am
maybe of claws, maybe of feathers; one clipped wing i stole, and pasted it like this
Be lusty with my heart, love. In the 5am hush, don’t flinch.
Be generous with your mouth, love. Without vocal chords
spell Tuesday across my skin like it’s a piece of paper. Oh, whatever day
it is, breathe it nimbly, nipple to back, forearm to foreskin,
all the hairs of yours woven together with mine in the language
of a slow rising sun, faithful across my body’s horizon.
Break over me.
concerts of yellow
clutch at my throat
they make me mad,
they make me think about
all the foolish things
we’ve done,
like believing we were special,
like full on mouths panting,
like how i never stopped aching
to be warm,,,
so what if i am one off?
so what if i’m coming up from
the pastures of boredom?
this cocksure sun is erect
and shining like wheat
making me want
to chop every word
into heart throbs
i never noticed, . dragging collected crust from the bottom ridge of my left eye onto my middle finger. it’s smudge, . magnaminous.
i stand atop linear, parallel bones. a small red comma staples my stable toe. i’ve recently had to break shit in. you. it’s an atrocity, the scarred
sky looks like perma frost. , it’s negative about everthing. me. then, today, the devil hit a wall, . changed my mind. i appreciate that
most every sunset is a smite. my eyes, my palms, will never be rid of raised lesions. it bothers him, and i’m still soft, so sometimes i cut
myself with nail clippers,, . it’s fine. everything almost always grows back. like my nettled haystack hair i put honey on last week in the shower.
some days i want to cut everthing : my bangs, the bushes, my teeth, ties to my parents., my brother an asshole. let’s not talk about my skin.
i’ve been slipping sentences
into your mouth for you to eat & grow on, or re-read
, whichever the case may be.
In a suffering sling-back chair I play Pac-Man, figuring things out. I’m becoming who I’m supposed to be with a joy stick in my hand. Scares the words out of me, really, to die in a corner by a ghost gobble.
With a child’s activity kit I weave pot holders on a plastic loom. Over-under, over-under. I increase loops. Can pulling yarn tightly make me trust myself more? Can scalding objects be decreased by handiwork and a crochet hook?
ghosts waft in
through open windows
~ summer sweats
what if we were
real, like a deeply
right watermelon donut
or what if we had good
bone structure like
the Fox theatre, or a Dr.
Pepper?
what would you
say if i told you to
let your child out
on needles highway?
you wouldn’t say it after
you saw the soft hairs
on their arms kissed by
the halo of the sun
what if we were a basketfull of
baubles (doorknobs really) except
we rivaled vintage water, and
galaxy pink skies everywhere?
what if it took me all afternoon
to spread over a field, to
walk by the sea, to identify
with a blue-bird planked picnic table
ars longa, vita brevis; how long
should i look at the world, before
you believe that a blue moon, that a candy
apple glow are among the real things?
