Hear a slow stair of doorbell
in an ugly place that
maybe I like. And when there's
a lightning jump it's x-ray frogs again.
It makes me think my head, which talks
with your voice. I can say right now, I don't
want your Christmas cards with the children
that aren't mine. Have your hands say "yes,"
or, "no," but quick and straight.
And last week.
I can't say I've ever liked church
pageants, but I like the word pageant.
I went for my friend, to sit
on the green velvet under the
plastic pine and saw her sing.
Then her mother sucked
the last pill and I flung back
to the green velvet, the fake plastic. Never such
courage as I'd always have rage, simple rage.
A high-pitch only means daisies
to me, and a low something of cane
sugar. You couldn't hurt it, girl, it
ain't a thing. Because even the bad vibes
I toss beyond the windowglass
draft up, they blow right back,
balled-up paper bits in a six-story
upward hurtle, and it's eerie: the
jarring dust murmurs there,
crooned before underlit brick,
unsung bigtop, an alleycat bedroom.
Friday, December 8, 2006
I love to read
papers thatredact
my holes.
they make me feel
written, which is
a good feeling, like
finding
a fellow
metalhead
on the bus.
I like to leave them out
strewn on
the bed
so you'll find them
and press them
so the bullet points give
you time
and space
to memorize
my birthmarks.
that way,
when I hate you
you'll know
it's just
my eyes
spinning
like wet wheels.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Uppercut
Oh Billy
in a town where I lost every shirt on a fence
you
shaking your hands at the birds
fell down my basement steps.
How're you doing?
I walked outside to paint those steps on Tuesday
dogs were digging up the ground
in this town where we
called you Shakespeare
you wrote me some sonnets
and some plays about death
but it turns out
you were
a lady!
Well, now I'm checking my smoke alarms
(they work OK)
and I've got the burners lit for you
you ugly thing.
in a town where I lost every shirt on a fence
you
shaking your hands at the birds
fell down my basement steps.
How're you doing?
I walked outside to paint those steps on Tuesday
dogs were digging up the ground
in this town where we
called you Shakespeare
you wrote me some sonnets
and some plays about death
but it turns out
you were
a lady!
Well, now I'm checking my smoke alarms
(they work OK)
and I've got the burners lit for you
you ugly thing.
God Is The Lord Of Our God
We slopped at the bandstand, loving our squid savior. Thanks to him, we poured the cement harpsichords in every bar in America, and the squid's trilling leapt and receded. He got his medal and we went home.
Upset by the car alarms, they used to whine, whooshing up from the dark zone, a billion tons every night. In the morning, they shone in the moment of their birth, and for nine hours slept humming in their crystal beds.
I once met a man who wore a necklace of their beaks, chain garlanded through the nostrils, stained green. Scars gotten in their acquisition swam and hinged across him. I asked him how he'd stood their squeals, but then saw his eaten ears.
We saw them sunning one day, Peggy and I, them lifting their eyes like holy books to the sky, tentacles a fractal of slamming noise. I drank my Pepsi and mouthed, "Let's go." That night they found one on the street. I came downstairs and the backhoe was coming towards it. I still wonder why it tried to walk to us.
The oceans are silent now. Every two months we pour whiskey in it and dance to the harpsichord, fretful stilted dances out of fashion since before white people lived here, and they dream. In their dreams they are silent. In my dreams their purring wakes me.
Upset by the car alarms, they used to whine, whooshing up from the dark zone, a billion tons every night. In the morning, they shone in the moment of their birth, and for nine hours slept humming in their crystal beds.
I once met a man who wore a necklace of their beaks, chain garlanded through the nostrils, stained green. Scars gotten in their acquisition swam and hinged across him. I asked him how he'd stood their squeals, but then saw his eaten ears.
We saw them sunning one day, Peggy and I, them lifting their eyes like holy books to the sky, tentacles a fractal of slamming noise. I drank my Pepsi and mouthed, "Let's go." That night they found one on the street. I came downstairs and the backhoe was coming towards it. I still wonder why it tried to walk to us.
The oceans are silent now. Every two months we pour whiskey in it and dance to the harpsichord, fretful stilted dances out of fashion since before white people lived here, and they dream. In their dreams they are silent. In my dreams their purring wakes me.
Little Bent
Starring in a sick man's dream ain't easy,
but it's warm and the dark is chiseled noiselessly
in there. Three steps forward and I'm
drunk, shining still off
his cold chin, brains hot with fever and sleep.
Under his eyelids, I'm trying to think around
my world. I wonder at my grandfather
crouched in his foxhole, eating mud and wanting
his hands among the flouncing beat of mortars. What
did he cry for? When I drink wine I feel
his steel plate in my own guts, warming like
a rod, spun by sadness.
The odd pull of waking leaves us both
like a thirst for water after whiskey.
What would I do from it? The dust on boots
from a distant star, quaking gently in its fleece.
I'm sleeping for two now and the crime
used to be a spiral, but now is peculiar
and nothing to be proud of.
Exp
My eyes are always never open for sure
In your white casing far be-dressed
While I think of the squirming way
Our knees hump as I dream
Of my family dying and great white
Mile-wide rivers caulking
Fat snowy cliffs, with nothing
But grandmothers sinking all in it.
To be soft, hit a certain branch
I will hear it shuffle and twine
In the back-magic of my slightness
Shapes of fine pinecone sluice dripping from the handset
Everybody wants to be my mother but
You’re my mantle something standing
Sudden handle in a farm scene
Like in churning art ferocity
It’s coming out
It’s coming out my heart-place
Everybody wants to be my mother but
Our little grapes trill on the vine
Wherefrom shapes hold, recoil
This is bee-stung singing song
This is us smoking
Interior
over time our skeletons acquire
colors, our bones
become painted. then the lies
our bones tell slant, oblique
like rafters, like passports
resold
the bones form a basin which this is—
this is where
we keep
the before sleep visions
where
one awaits an elevator
if you want I’ll put
my cheek against the slope
of your loss
which
in your sleep
Not For Fire
Put your knife in that wolf.
I feel like it's time now. I feel
birds compress the night into a pall and
I feel they leave it there.
the critters
mug each other truly
A CROQUET MATCH,
PLANNED FOR ALL OPPOSED
TO WAR
OVERFLOWED WHEN
(every sunset)
(became a cave)
Year Long Lens
Now that it is cold I am remembering
a time when putting
my breath on a cold
pane of glass
was like bleeding,
when rooms
and hallways were lit
by one lamp only, yellow
oh like a glass bone!
I put the tendons of my arm on a harp
that toured our country's airports
for three whole months.
Westchester International: I heard
them singing in December, still red.
a time when putting
my breath on a cold
pane of glass
was like bleeding,
when rooms
and hallways were lit
by one lamp only, yellow
oh like a glass bone!
I put the tendons of my arm on a harp
that toured our country's airports
for three whole months.
Westchester International: I heard
them singing in December, still red.
Ram
I live with my mother
who is earless and brown.
She’s lying in the dark again,
foaming at her new book. She
tells me it’s her worst, but on
drugs we don’t yet have.
Mama, I say.
Left a party with a stomach full of light.
Drove my red car up the hill
where Edith lived. A banner
sank on my eyes through
the jellied thunder,
lightning put its finger on me
and I died.
It could be nothing. Then she stops
and listens for the insects
spreading their legs.
My crickets are gone
she says, giving me a look.
Outside, I put my thumbs
to the sweating moon and its timber
gives when I press. I have named its
landscape for her:
in this crater your smoothwinging birds eat suet
in this canyon I poured your husband’s whiskey
posing, forgetting
the edges of the world.
When I walk back in
she is happy
to talk.
Blink On, Orange Fishnets
When I first
met your mouth
it made no sense
and you, behind it
your arms folded
small and strange.
It was both
cold and warm;
clearly unbrushed,
peeking
lovely.
Now your face
knows mine
and I am
fluent in your
tongue.
I look back, yeah.
Your mouth
makes no sense
but now it's
where I'm from.
met your mouth
it made no sense
and you, behind it
your arms folded
small and strange.
It was both
cold and warm;
clearly unbrushed,
peeking
lovely.
Now your face
knows mine
and I am
fluent in your
tongue.
I look back, yeah.
Your mouth
makes no sense
but now it's
where I'm from.
Folk Tale
1,000 years ago in Romania
the night sky leaned over the ground
to watch three brothers
struggle in their woods.
A sheep watched.
Knives out. And when
they went back in
the youngest got
married to the moon,
left his sheep like
great sleeping brains,
and for the new husband
the stars shook a little.
the night sky leaned over the ground
to watch three brothers
struggle in their woods.
A sheep watched.
Knives out. And when
they went back in
the youngest got
married to the moon,
left his sheep like
great sleeping brains,
and for the new husband
the stars shook a little.
Ann Arbor
I took you from Dayton
to spoil your fun. It worked
in the way we
work at food, at football
games, us torn through mud,
our loving laundry.
We can only play
house for so long.
I want to blow up balloons
for our misunderstandings.
There is nothing on
the way to your house
even when I reverse
direction and stop to
hear the gulls
flashing slowly like
wheels in the winter sun.
I drop to your belly like a thorn.
The snow cows at the window outside.
Jerks you back, don’t it?
I remember the words but
they only revolve in my hearing,
I only hear the gloves
hissing my way.
Look at my dirty face, look
how it charms you though I am not
good company. There is no
telling what I will say
tonight through the bedroom
window. There is no telling
how I will earn your bed.
to spoil your fun. It worked
in the way we
work at food, at football
games, us torn through mud,
our loving laundry.
We can only play
house for so long.
I want to blow up balloons
for our misunderstandings.
There is nothing on
the way to your house
even when I reverse
direction and stop to
hear the gulls
flashing slowly like
wheels in the winter sun.
I drop to your belly like a thorn.
The snow cows at the window outside.
Jerks you back, don’t it?
I remember the words but
they only revolve in my hearing,
I only hear the gloves
hissing my way.
Look at my dirty face, look
how it charms you though I am not
good company. There is no
telling what I will say
tonight through the bedroom
window. There is no telling
how I will earn your bed.
oh it drools with us
finding suddenly
the physics i've been trying to sell
for the past three weeks i
opened up eric. they said
it looked like the war on terror.
he's a windex prince now
with his filling falling out,
robed around him
like a soggy wheel.
we're gonna hop out
to the mountain where
precious metals are
sent to bleed.
quiet, eric.
quiet, son.
look at the pretty lights.
from above some white trees
the aliens look our
stupendous ways.
the physics i've been trying to sell
for the past three weeks i
opened up eric. they said
it looked like the war on terror.
he's a windex prince now
with his filling falling out,
robed around him
like a soggy wheel.
we're gonna hop out
to the mountain where
precious metals are
sent to bleed.
quiet, eric.
quiet, son.
look at the pretty lights.
from above some white trees
the aliens look our
stupendous ways.
On the stoop. You hear a deadbeat shake
moan and turn. She burns parallel to us.
It's here and I say Drop from a sky's there
and I will be your mouth. See how this critter
hush takes us in a chain of chins
far far south towards the mural on my head.
My clutter can be your next house. I love our
mistakes, baldy, and I'm saying the parade
passes us by, implies our house. There's nothing
I want to say in the way of "brutal honesty."
I'm rough on clothes, bright on skin, and it's
fine. Polish off the gristle. Flunk too soon.
Let me gift you your shining fists so
we can crash the party between them.
moan and turn. She burns parallel to us.
It's here and I say Drop from a sky's there
and I will be your mouth. See how this critter
hush takes us in a chain of chins
far far south towards the mural on my head.
My clutter can be your next house. I love our
mistakes, baldy, and I'm saying the parade
passes us by, implies our house. There's nothing
I want to say in the way of "brutal honesty."
I'm rough on clothes, bright on skin, and it's
fine. Polish off the gristle. Flunk too soon.
Let me gift you your shining fists so
we can crash the party between them.
Through Tubes Under Cities A Wedding
I flipped home palsied and pissed
for a wedding. Slowly my mother spread
her fronds and shone at having men
clean up, while padre and I
helped ourselves until
my cousin told the ring she did.
The priest was slurring shit like:
"love izuh cammada raimbows!"
When he shut up we prayed
and I heard no words but outpushed breath,
lovely catholic consonants blinking like
brass stars toward the parking lot.
I want to tell you what I saw there:
a neo-nazi,
a woman climbing a tree,
a lake under boiling clouds,
a misplaced pill
on the window sill.
for a wedding. Slowly my mother spread
her fronds and shone at having men
clean up, while padre and I
helped ourselves until
my cousin told the ring she did.
The priest was slurring shit like:
"love izuh cammada raimbows!"
When he shut up we prayed
and I heard no words but outpushed breath,
lovely catholic consonants blinking like
brass stars toward the parking lot.
I want to tell you what I saw there:
a neo-nazi,
a woman climbing a tree,
a lake under boiling clouds,
a misplaced pill
on the window sill.
No Thistle, Green Beer
Sister, on St. Patty's day I stood
in our backyard and screamed
to dislodge our ruined
whiffle balls from the smiling hedge.
The sky was yellow,
hot and certain
like it is tonight
two hundred and seventy-seven
miles south.
You are so, so gone. All that is left is
your toothless picture on
the easel, this thistle,
and the sense of driving away
that hangs behind my eyes.
Spiders still scare Judy, but I swat
them no longer. My soup last night
looked like your stain on the wood panels.
It rains silver drugs on me and I
grab everyone who passes and cry on
them. It's a fool who don't.
Small girl from a pinecone tweener,
I wanted to kill you when you
rode your bike faster than me and now
your lips are heavy with sediment
and posture and chicken grease and
won't you take those earrings off
and be my sister again?
in our backyard and screamed
to dislodge our ruined
whiffle balls from the smiling hedge.
The sky was yellow,
hot and certain
like it is tonight
two hundred and seventy-seven
miles south.
You are so, so gone. All that is left is
your toothless picture on
the easel, this thistle,
and the sense of driving away
that hangs behind my eyes.
Spiders still scare Judy, but I swat
them no longer. My soup last night
looked like your stain on the wood panels.
It rains silver drugs on me and I
grab everyone who passes and cry on
them. It's a fool who don't.
Small girl from a pinecone tweener,
I wanted to kill you when you
rode your bike faster than me and now
your lips are heavy with sediment
and posture and chicken grease and
won't you take those earrings off
and be my sister again?
Lobotomy Dream
After the surgery we got the report.
"Nothing to be said concerning his
eating five apples with a
knife and fork."
This was at night, a lobotomy dream.
The dream was about things leaving:
mothers, freedom, brains, big metal objects.
In the dream we made the darkness ribbon up,
one little globe in a drawstring,
to convince Goldilocks,
blonde curls hanging town the ten stories,
that we were only fairies, to be adored
and feared a little.
Then I stole little packs of cigarettes,
too small to smoke, from the Army.
They were there to help, but I only
wanted to don my medal. My friend, whose
face shook in the sun, told me, "Get out!"
I woke from the dream and went to the street.
Down there was the Black Dude
fighting with his boss, the Ice Man. Black Dude was
asleep on the job.
"I wish I had a camera!" said the Ice Man.
"Yeah, yeah," said the Black Dude.
"Yeah, yeah," said the Ice Man.
"I'll pull out your eyes, man!" said the Black Dude.
In the dream we were prisoners,
but on the street we are free,
the Black Dude, the Ice Man and me.
"Nothing to be said concerning his
eating five apples with a
knife and fork."
This was at night, a lobotomy dream.
The dream was about things leaving:
mothers, freedom, brains, big metal objects.
In the dream we made the darkness ribbon up,
one little globe in a drawstring,
to convince Goldilocks,
blonde curls hanging town the ten stories,
that we were only fairies, to be adored
and feared a little.
Then I stole little packs of cigarettes,
too small to smoke, from the Army.
They were there to help, but I only
wanted to don my medal. My friend, whose
face shook in the sun, told me, "Get out!"
I woke from the dream and went to the street.
Down there was the Black Dude
fighting with his boss, the Ice Man. Black Dude was
asleep on the job.
"I wish I had a camera!" said the Ice Man.
"Yeah, yeah," said the Black Dude.
"Yeah, yeah," said the Ice Man.
"I'll pull out your eyes, man!" said the Black Dude.
In the dream we were prisoners,
but on the street we are free,
the Black Dude, the Ice Man and me.
Connecticut Ave., 10 A.M.
A sigh, a sieve, blowing on the wrong day,
a heave to know these good throngs.
Measure my thing, we're travelling
to a sheen perplexed, exposed in
photos of rifles, off on the lurch of
a pleasing fall, of falling buildings.
My palms are sweet at the rally,
cold for the sieve-blown
plebes to rot. The holy glow of
granules sifting in the pot tempts
me to bash my knuckles
against your wood, hallelujah!
Find out somewhere that you
and I expand and trot, the
bugs tick like bombs the world
over. My heart says it wants
to kill us, but only for a number.
Borrow my good thongs, you friend, on
this wrong day forever.
a heave to know these good throngs.
Measure my thing, we're travelling
to a sheen perplexed, exposed in
photos of rifles, off on the lurch of
a pleasing fall, of falling buildings.
My palms are sweet at the rally,
cold for the sieve-blown
plebes to rot. The holy glow of
granules sifting in the pot tempts
me to bash my knuckles
against your wood, hallelujah!
Find out somewhere that you
and I expand and trot, the
bugs tick like bombs the world
over. My heart says it wants
to kill us, but only for a number.
Borrow my good thongs, you friend, on
this wrong day forever.
I Remember Work
In this dark you are asleep and your
eyelids are fawns drinking. There is nothing
more truly made of petals than your
face aslant and the tremors it leaves
on the pillow in the lockjawed oyster of your sleeping.
Nothing in this dark to skate on
and nothing for my appetite but
I can't complain because now we are
going the way that leads to blue blue
hills, maroon hills, hills of all hues,
drooping hues in colored loops of hills.
Besides, you sleep when I can't sleep
(you should know better than to leave me)
so I plug in the lamp not looking
at your pale skin that
makes the moon look strung out on hope--
if I did I'd have to
wake you up and say, look!
look: god couldn't take
those hills from us!
eyelids are fawns drinking. There is nothing
more truly made of petals than your
face aslant and the tremors it leaves
on the pillow in the lockjawed oyster of your sleeping.
Nothing in this dark to skate on
and nothing for my appetite but
I can't complain because now we are
going the way that leads to blue blue
hills, maroon hills, hills of all hues,
drooping hues in colored loops of hills.
Besides, you sleep when I can't sleep
(you should know better than to leave me)
so I plug in the lamp not looking
at your pale skin that
makes the moon look strung out on hope--
if I did I'd have to
wake you up and say, look!
look: god couldn't take
those hills from us!
Soon
It was four o'clock in February when
our t-shirts froze in the alley.
We'd talked into love before
like the rolled-up
newspaper we
tore to pieces on the bed
but never wore.
But we slept in it
that night, our hurried
latewinter bedroom.
The next day I ate
tacos and wrote: "In some ways
it was like sleeping with
a tiger cub. Or some long, white
algorithm, in my arms for all
the heat we made." Then the grass
convulsed.
And now I look at the spiders
on the window and wish I could
hear their slow, cruel songs because
I want them to take what we have,
turn it over in their hands
and breathe a name for it.
our t-shirts froze in the alley.
We'd talked into love before
like the rolled-up
newspaper we
tore to pieces on the bed
but never wore.
But we slept in it
that night, our hurried
latewinter bedroom.
The next day I ate
tacos and wrote: "In some ways
it was like sleeping with
a tiger cub. Or some long, white
algorithm, in my arms for all
the heat we made." Then the grass
convulsed.
And now I look at the spiders
on the window and wish I could
hear their slow, cruel songs because
I want them to take what we have,
turn it over in their hands
and breathe a name for it.
Banana Republic
The nerd princes
in the high school
we as punks also
publicized photos of
the us in
drag on consignment
but later
with more
elbows remembered
the OTHER pic, yo.
Saw that one
ooh stark!
in my head full
of colored thumb bones.
In that fucking wool
directed to look
away from the camera
and then induced
puke-awareness
that I slumped
hair gel and
horn rims to
smooth out
my inherent mange
for the girl and
worse her mother to
think me cute.
A bloody shrug seeped
from hawk-bit
shoulders, ah
shit it was all
coming down for
the break-up and
I broke the
house down
with an uncle's
borrowed
wrecking ball.
in the high school
we as punks also
publicized photos of
the us in
drag on consignment
but later
with more
elbows remembered
the OTHER pic, yo.
Saw that one
ooh stark!
in my head full
of colored thumb bones.
In that fucking wool
directed to look
away from the camera
and then induced
puke-awareness
that I slumped
hair gel and
horn rims to
smooth out
my inherent mange
for the girl and
worse her mother to
think me cute.
A bloody shrug seeped
from hawk-bit
shoulders, ah
shit it was all
coming down for
the break-up and
I broke the
house down
with an uncle's
borrowed
wrecking ball.
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