Swallow My AstronomyHe had a black hole for a mouth,and eyes like the dying stars that I would never collide with."Speak me the universe," I told him.He laughed, and swallowed my galaxy.
Cheap Talk"My body is a language," she said. "Can't you read?"
Simple MathDying, I decide that I miss you again.I add up my love for you,and divide by zero.
Is it like today?Pulling out the kind of nature that only your ankles can touch,you guess God's name and tell me how similar we look without any skin."Hush, darling," you said. "We don't have to share the same universe today."
Rain and Hypnagogic StatesI glance at you through the sea of babbling faces,and suddenly you're squirming in your seat."How beautiful you are when you dance for me."
The face you make is priceless.I've got wrists like empty pockets,and a spine I made out of your weekly pay.You crack open my bones, and scour for the loose change.
I won't tell anyone.Mouths made of masturbation, and eyes like dying stars,you aim for something short of profanity.
Not without sugar.Green tea eyes, and fingertips like galaxies,I stumble through your milky way.
Blunt enough to smoke.Fuck you.Now neither of us are worth my poetry.
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,fifteen and beer-loosetied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lipsand i wrote a story about disaster,a quiet two sleds long.a box full of beads, i swallowedfifteen needles, mommy. don’ttell me i’m not sorry.don’t call me a whore you bag of bonesyou lock-loose suitcase do you evenrecognize me look at my face my toothache skini am not the one with the knife.my mother never slept with a boywho didn’t love her never let a boysleep on her while she lay awake beneaththe shroud of his skin breathing onlywhen her voice-box gathered too much dust.you have to know i didn’t doit on purpose. he slid beers down my throattill i felt like a landfill.i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-dot.you couldn’t tell. i got homewith my legs full of nightmare.the doctor said xanax.i said i am a ruin like the oneswe saw in peru.a balloon in a funeral poem.
they can't be takentheir bleach skin caught my eyealbino white against the wildhair like bright sky electric in the briarshaloed sister gods shot down like fawn
symptoms of red a materialist inside of you unknitting your sweater & in your dream you are a wolf eating a flower in an orange field. the world is ending. an unnamed girl stains you as if she were tea giving up to a foaming ocean. she writes a story: the unrequited blurry visions of two visionaries
blue lighti want tolive in yourfluorescent fixtures.i want tobreatheyour mercury& kissyour filamentsburning.i want totaste yourbroken glasslunates,your palemoon concavity.(the cathodes deep beneath your skin transverse & splintering.)
movingjust before the start of springwhilst blue moonlight washedmy slightly sacred thingi vacated the left side of my braini moved out overnightin a dream of sharp linesas mad naked womendanced to thick phallic symbolsall covered in vinei packed up in the darkness(but for the blue)placed my logic in a square trunkmy fears and my algebra tooleft the past with the futureleft all science with factsand found history quite lightfor all that it lacksi left for the street sweeperperfect plato in boxesleft him all for a visionof green spotted foxes
Notes on nightCupped hands could holda moth's night,a moon waning somewhere betweenmiddle and index.In fear,the dust,the cuddling craters,the end,would become the flight.
The RoseAt a desk, coffee sachets rest.Long-life milk harbourswhite dreams of expiry.Shuffling in his forgetful nesta grey man blinksat the intruding light.Americo, do you rememberyour antique power,that opened like a roseon the walls of Hiroshima?
GoliathEvery afternoon, for ten minutesthey open your door.Perhaps, inthe bass-less talk of the lounge set,all do speak to you- beingthe chosencrucified on a mattress,the grit of a cement floorscattering your sweatlike broken veins, tothe drain youd rather pee inthan pass pinching, knocking for the guards.I dreamt you were a spider legdancing to death, pinned &straitening like a snake in a bag,the nurses huddled, mindless to the spiderfolding in a crevice seven legs wide.
carnivore stainsYOU BECOME HUMAN WHEN YOUR CHEEKSFLUSH AND YOUR GIGGLES ARE TRAILSOF INNOCENCE ESCAPING THROUGH YOUR MOUTH.before that you are a demon.a purple bruise,beating and wrinkled creature with eyescut into diamond ends that retract the lightplaced on it in razor-sharp reflections.you crawl forth into the world with an aching squeal that could even make the heavensbow to their knees,make your mother bleedlike the first day of Woman.your nails, nine months grown to fit thatof a clover's lucky leaf, sharpen like nails in the floor-board, and your mother is a prune in whichher womb is lined with your exit marks.your nails sweetly trim her bottom-lipsso that you will be the last thingto break her, the first to make her,the one to kiss her forforever.
you sleep and i think of homethe light is lime-washed gold overyour heavy insignificance in sleep. help me. iam already in love with the door to your room,its closing: rising pocket of seattle air markedwith the outward sweeping of our limbs, overand dark until i cradle your dreamsin cupped hands. watch.this house will turn beneath us and somedaywe will be welcome, low night beckoningfrom these wet streets. it will know our skinslow and stretching toward the rooftops--sleep steamed with forgetting,a truce of stars.
Dear Lord.If I am a wildflower, give me the widest purplest wingsIf I am a knockout, let my smile really pack a punch I work too hard, God. It's funny how you hold together the universe and spinning Saturn and Pluto never gives you breakdow
reminiscencesomeday we won't remember thisno one will, not the dirt or stars,not the dust scattered when a sundies and the universe swallows its birthnot the men who wasted livesproving theories long debunked orthe whores leaning in doorways to fucksoldiers who won't come homeand no one will remember the doghit on route sixty-three, the first gutsi saw glistening in summer heatjust as no one remembers i was the kidthey called to crack open the fire hydrantbecause no one else could and theyshrieked, soaked in water no one remembers,soaked in water that could have saved lives,water circling into the sewer,waste no oneremembers.
Why I Can't Love a PoetHe said you're beautiful likeblack birds on a gray sky ora tree that's recently died butholds its last green leaves untilthey wither and crack, swept awayby a northern wind bearing his name.
my father has started to take pictures.my father has startedto take pictures: of the flowersand birds he sees on his wayto the lookout, a hike that my loverand I have yet to successfullycomplete but my aging fatherwalks daily; of the puppyhe bought my sister forher birthday, all pawsand ears; of a mooseeating out of our bird feederlast week; of the black bear that livesin our backyard, which my father'sdog trees every other week; ofthe land he tends to all summer,even after long days of achingbacks and feet and hands. he isso proud of them, in his shy way,so eager but apprehensivewhen I ask to see. I wishI could make him understandhow much he has already shown me.how much the way he sees his worldshapes the way I see mine. howI have always relied on his vision: the lensthrough which my lens peers.
In stillness1. My bones are rocks, curved and exfoliated and shapedby the heavy ocean storms in my lungs,like cyclones of dust and regurgitated diary entrieshave been lifted by the trembling earthand slammed into my spine, repeatedly, until I bowbefore everything more powerful than I could ever be.And they are yours.2. I love you,violently,like my lips thirst for more than your mandarin gums,so I can eat through the hurt, clogged in your throat."My heart is obviously incapable of holding love";let me prove you wrong.3. Our sex lies in the pain along my neck,where my blood has pooled and frozen.I can barely feel my fingers or my toes and I am lostin the kind of surrendering you never (have the time to) think about.4. Like plates, we can only make somethingwhen we converge or diverge;mountain ranges for our breaths to circulate,or new plains for our feet to soak into our soles.Clamber over the trenches your fingers have carved on my chestand hide under my immobile muscles.They
To Him, With Loveintimacy is airing outthose facts you have heldagainst yourself,allowing someone elseto draw his own conclusions aboutyour vain pursuits of existence.
RxI would prescribe for eachand every one of you tospend an uncomfortable amount of timewith someone more medicated than yourself.It doesn't matter if they see things,or refuse to feed their guts,or happen to be so anxious that theycan'tstopshaking.Just lounge around and pretend to drinkuntouched coffee. Smoke unlitcigarettes. Let them choose theconversation topic; it will be interesting-It will be aboutdemons.It will be aboutfireflies.It will be about the kinds of things thatstand over your bed and burrow deep into yourchest with their lighted eyes.He or she will make the casethat every medicine shares the sameintended side effect of making youfeel better, just long enough until theystart speaking with shadows againand consider overdosing on sanity.If I were them, I wouldaccent this whole conversation byflicking the light switchon andoff,andonand off;As if it wereday and nightall over again.
We are far too young and clever.I am of other suns than you,and in the light all I can see are your shadows. He asks, "What's gotten into you lately?"and she says, "Obviously not you."