Your Hands Like Moons, Like Tiger Teeth

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.