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?"
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."
Simple MathDying, I decide that I miss you again.I add up my love for you,and divide by zero.
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.
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."
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.
I'm not listening anyhow.Make them believe thatAll the people in the world areSomething beautifulThat only you and I canUnderstand when we close our eyes andRun so far away with our thoughts like aBuzz in the back of our brains becauseAnatomy is something that we still haven'tThought too much aboutIn the dark behind our eyelids that willOnly visit us whenNo one else is around.
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.
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
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
To LondonGypsy hopefuls once told me,there are flights leaving forany destinationat any given instantUpon sizing up our town witha fingernaildid you realise how littleour frustrations were?I spoke about this ineffable feelingof stepping out of one tuband into new water.The hotel was done up nicely,chandeliers and polished English accents.Labels aside they still mixedmilk into their coffeeand had toast with jam and butter.I was living under the impressionthat most of the Internetcame from my same slice of city pie,conveniently forgetting aboutthe undersea cables.I loathed the lack of vernacularsentence styles and words.She saw things through different eyesand I understood her.When I found out she was a writerhalfway across the globeI was selfishand I loved the world a little less.It was differentbut it was still water.
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
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.)
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridgeslike the smoke from some great unseen inferno,the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to usin low groans,of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,and there was flickering light from a candle,and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspondin some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythmand I believed that part,and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey dayand that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythmsor any question a farmers son could ever mutter, and the wind slowed to a stillnessand the rain moved in and our voices gave wayto what my Father would call The Lords Music,the pitter-patter of wateron the dry and flaking earth.
the less i knowsomething new: my breath hitched but the words meant nothing.i owed the light peserverent flattery in the form of prose,stories of what could have been.the gloom in which i slept was a system altogether unable to measure up to the new universe;to exist together in perfect cognition is first to understand that i never wish to be better.how pitiable this impure form to which we all succumblittered with stars. i am temporary like them, almost, always and never.I have forgotten how to live. it is late mornings during which i upturn my lazy eyes to the skyagainst it's will. there, like you, live millions- and my mind is reborn.the day comes. easily her gentle beckoning fills our minds. the sky is golden-blue:unmasterable. we retract our wicked claws and our majestic selvesare now only threats we cannot perceive.we lie nestled like tired humans together in the cold grass, and the blades are shiningwet with the tears of the dawn. we're late. we're forgottenyou touch the e
fuck 2 am.this is not a reminder ofthe way the windcreepcreepcreeps under your window pane,of rank stale ginand cheap lipstick stains oncrinkly cream collarsof daydreams/of vanilla sex/ofscreamingOHGODOHGODOHGODinto the stillnessabove your parents' bedroomor of nightsupwonderingif there is something you've been missingwith cracked lipsand the taste ofpiss-and-vinegar on your tongue;the bitter rattle of chainsmokein the back ofyour lungsandyou will realizethere are better ways to spend yourtwentieth-thirtieth-fortiethbirthdaythan alone anddying(or dying alone)
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
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.
While waiting for the heat-death of the universeWhile waiting for the heat-death of the universeI lose whole nights of sleep,performing graceless gymnasticsin the dark, morphing in half-dreamsfrom a bent stalk of bambooto a wounded boa, from a damp towelto a portion of broken necklace lying in the dirt,pointing as if by accident underground toward a lost city.My body seems a gesture of something else.I am trying to be patientfor whatever it isto arrive..While waiting for the heat-death of the universeI grow delirious.It simply takes too long,what becomes incomprehensiblebecomes meaningless as well.I visualize horses running across a field of tall grass.Before they reach the tree-line they all fall,as if into a large hole.Are they my sins piling up,or being forgiven,or what?Why am I so fixated on them beingmy sins,anyway?.While waiting for the heat-death of the universeI water the plants. My garden is growing,almost without me. I eat the tomatoesand touch the petals of rare flowersso I might not
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.
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.
BeliefBeliefShe tells him the child is not his.The old women mutter and cluckas they slap wet cloth against river stones.He wraps his arms around his chest as though he fearshe will also sprout with child. "A dove,"he quietly asks? She points to a blood spoton her cheek. "He pecked me here." It still hurtswhen she touches it. It always hurts.He loves the child, the cuckold's hatchling. He loves his lying wife.But he knows she lies. When the old men stumbleinto the stable, beards matted, coarse as grain,he simply mutters, "Drunks," bad wine, betrayal.One afternoon as he saws cedar planks, sawdust thick as pollen,an angel catches his hatchling as he falls from a branch."I shaped the angel out of air," he thinks, so desperateto believe that a dove pecked his wife, and she swelled with child.
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.
Bipolari am done with patienceand its deadening face.i want what spillsout of her eyes when the waves crashagainst the shore;and the shriekingi want that too,banging against my spine.and maybe i'll ripen and burstfalling from the treeready to ride on the back of windy daysaudacious and free.
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."