i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationmy sweet synchronicity ,i have downed your appetitein a bed of front teeth (it is morning in perthmidnight in dublin, and the noonsun has been lost behinda dress of mothy curtains)do i taste ofyour forethought of love making;do i reek ofthe weeds that have infiltratedthe posture of your spine?-you bend overmy lap a curve of guiltand weep all night.i collect each knob of your bodylike a gift. press it to my mouth.swallow, spit.
i and youwho is it thatyou dream of?is it mewith the knife in your back;do you see methe woman witha wolf jawcut slack in a growl?do i pounce you?do you defeat mewith the knifei gave you?and i wonder the soundof me when you finally put your demonto rest--she is a venus(her body cut fromthe ivory tusk with hips like that of a valley, breasts shaped astwo moons caught inher breath)and i am the trapshe slips into.i cut her headinto a loop land wear her round my necklike lace.
thankheaven for books,and mulatto boys thatbreak my heart; thank god for vodka andthank god for urges that slither into deep throatspast better judgement and thank god for his handsthat he lovedme with
note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
thuggish loverno more on love. tell meinstead of the hearts you'vebeaten, and the way they kept onthrobbing
the protector i grind my palm into my stomachand it crumbles like the soft rocktowering the highway, crashing onthe paved road.i am not at a loss as to how it isi became so weak. i sat myselfdown one night a while agoas i shivered from your words,and i saidsoak it in, let it poison you.i am not a drug addict. but in youi looked for the possibility of feeling.and you did poison me.i sit within dreams where your mouthis wet, and tugging me, and myhands are pressed deep within the parts of you that stay warm. i am not cold. but my bones acheas if they are, perhaps it is becauseyou are so close, or perhaps it isbecause the air stills when youare near.in the morning i wake with my mouthdry and my palms wet and my shouldersaching. and my voice stumbles, as if itslipped out in the middle of the nightto find you.i can never find you.i do not blame youfor the absence.i know that if you were brave enoughyou would stay. i know that if yourskin did not crawl w
KATRINALIVES A MILEfrom the sea.she is sallow as a beach.she smells like rain,or a wet earth,with pale hair clippedbehind her headwith pins.she feels as though her hairwould be black. but it isbrown, sometimesand sometimesit is colorlessblonde.KATRINAGIVES MY STOMACHa fight.she doesn't speak.she is silence.i speak at her, mostlyand her eyeslook as thoughthey've been pluckedfrom a lynxto replaceher own.they are blue around the edgesthe deep blue you findat the edge of the sea,if you've been out that far.at the center they are greenlight like a riptide.they tug you in.unmoving, and calculatingwith audacity.KATRINAi said to someone once,gave me head.she didn't.her hands are too far duginto the coast of spainfor her to reach me,far too eagerfor my composure.she'd suck me drylike her mothers didthe caspian sea,like the fields of saharaonce lush with green.she is a barefoot girl.she moans like the shorefrontin the dead of night.i've made love to
interlopershow me god the way your motherknew him, show me the mark onyour body where he stoppedyou from suicide, where he changedyour winters to summers andback again.address me by my first name to showme that your respect for me hasn'tdied, letter by letter, buried betweenthe bow of your hips alongside ouronce-strong playground love.tell me the preacher was lying as hespoke of our comely desire falling tothe destructive hand of a deity no onehas ever seen, but feels as they speakin tongues that never matched the ones ispoke in to finally tell you thati felt for you.don't leave me in some drunken tantrumacross state lines, slurring words asyou try to tell me your love for someoneelse is vivid and living in you, even in theparts that have died away, breathing outalcohol as you use the word "never".curl into me with intimacy, touching the sadnessout of me, because i always wanted to bethe one you love, not the one you loved.
tapdances on our brittle bonesif it's fifth hour and there's a cadaver in the classroom,it's because i'm carving your initials in my right carpus;or perhaps it's because we're investigating human skulls,but yours is the only one i'd like to play detective with(i'd donate my skeleton to youhad you not already owned it)(i'll use parenthesesas if they're oxygen)but not punctuationor lowercase lettersor irony because i'vewatched too much tvwithout you or senseor an attention span,and i will write poetry in the form ofsliced wrists and broken wishes, ofhacked kneecaps andhackneyed caps lock:I WILL SCREAM AT THE STARSAS IF I DISCOVERED THE SKY;I WILL YELL FROM MY LUNGS,AS IF I INVENTED BREATHINGMY VOCAL CORDS WILL EXPLODEAS IF I'M THE FIRST ONE TO YELL,and i will whisper with my tongueas if i still owned full custody of it.(and enter more parenthesesbecause you're breathtaking;i'm breathless and in need ofyour/my/our twisted oxygen)O+Mg => U+Ibut chemistry reactions don't helpwhen m
on moving outI take my bookends. I take my whiteboardand that crooked letter opener I use to pop the caps offbeers, I take my poems,I take my brand-new never-used coffeemakerand my decades-old over-used typewriter which weighsabout 6 babies. I take my pictures, and those lettersyou wrote me;I do not take you. I take thePS2. and the broken lamp. and yourpuked-on, bleached-overshirt. I take no shit.[no shitbut my own shit.]I take a blanket,my good underwearand a deck of cards.I take my cat.I burn the rest.
Witches MarketMidnight fell like an old black bird;I meant to wait for you.There were tables rich withamethyst and pearls,and fragrance by the fistful,mint and petrichor.I meant to wait for you.You were gliding through the hazewith your knotted bag half full-shadows flicked their tonguesabove your knees;you meant to look for me.Moments ran like mice;a silver pot, a cup of tea.She stank of vinegar and thyme-the hand was hers, the heart was mine.Her iron eyes reflected flame;she took my lungs, she took my name,though you had meant to look for me,and I had to meant to wait for youamid the black salt and the brew.Ash for the handle,Birch for the brush,Willow for the cord that binds the twigs.
yes, all womenmonths or yearsfrom now my therapistwill click her pen atme in the static humof her silent office,perhaps before poppingthe question so manyothers have before:why haven't yougotten over it?if it's hard tounderstand why theshortest relationshipi've undergone hasscarred my skin andnearly taken my life,then i'll explain.i am not over itbecause panic attacksrattle me when i seemy abuser's face -in person or in memories.i am not over itbecause a tank top andshort-shorts does not,under any circumstances,mean "yes", and neitherdoes his teeth on my neckor the silence betweenthe two of us.i am not over itbecause i was ridiculedand rumored to be a slutbecause his handsdecided i was.i am not over itbecause i still getprank calls from privatenumbers and nightmaresshake my fitfullysleepless nights.i am not over itbecause i am scared tocross the street to work,and i have beenharassed more timesthan i have fingersby men with the same eyesas my ab
contactwould it be possibleto grow so comfortable withanother person'sskin,that distancewould feel like tearing off your own?
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.
morningssunday.the croissant crumbles in my fingersbuttery flakes drift towards mismatchedchinaand your lips are stained withstrawberry jam.monday.sleep clings to your eyeslike a shadowand i watch you breathe, whilei trace your collarbone withtired fingers.tuesday.we wake before the alarmand count how many times theneighbor's dog barksbefore she finally lets him in.your soft laugh blends perfectly intothe early morning sun.wednesday.your fingers trace the curveof my spinethe old window rattlesin the windand i press my cold toes against your leg.thursday.half asleepi mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaperlooks pretty in the sun.you tell me i look prettier.friday.i tickle your cheek with my eyelashesand make my fingers doski jumpsoff your noseand wonder out loud whythe room smells like oranges[you tell me you ate some for a midnight snack.]saturday.linen
a casual i love you1.a note reads: i love you.so, i call you smilingani love you, too.your phone rings. he stops.the phone stops. youstart, unclothed on top.2.you wait, watching tv,to tell me.
slippers your ghost eats peanut butter out of the jar. an atomic grease fire tongues our oven like an aneurysm. if only we walked on clouds if only we lived in the belly of the ocean
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressfor four days, becauseI am sick, exquisitelysick --black and gold, your drunkdimestore Nefertiti. Awhite stain announcesitself, a muddy star:she coughedhere. Undo yourself,those sallow words you drink,let the silk fall loose. I've gota face like dirty laundryand burial grounds --What I touch becomesunwell. I wear my hairlike it pains me,blow kisseslike a little girlsucking her teethat cars, the caked littletombs of sugar that crumble,nakedunder the hot milkof the sun.
jamaisthe truth, as staunch and without ornamentas I can make it,is that I did not want your love,your voice rattling like the hoary whispersof stars;your dreams (rustling like cattailsand half-extended to meet mine)were as foreign to meas moonlight, concealedin its various robes.your sucking fireflies,neon mothish words meant to draw me in,flurried uselessly about me.but now that your attempted eloquenceis more akin to the wick of a lamp,charred and drowning in oil,I may vaguely nod my head.
literally, a quesadilla more than you will ever understand, you smell like an impressionist painting. cigarettes, new car, shirt stuck to skin. laughing: I wonder what would happen if we fucked right here, sacriligiously. no nerves, just confidently lacing the space between planets with electric light
HistoryIt's easier to generalize a century than it is to generalize a day.
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
four-thirtythis is not a poem. this is a machinationof falling. somewhere, it is four-thirtyin the morning, and the asphalt is makinga metaphor of itself. somewheremeaning is sleepwalking its waythrough our wastedness,our worthlessness. just before sunrise,the sky cracks like an opening fist, and i laythe alphabet of my bodyon this bundled nonsense earth, breatheour polluted night by acres, and knowthat it means everything— this burnishedswell of cold, this mistaken,errant light, lonely and heavingin a starless web—knowing stops our mouths, fills themwith empty rooms. by day, mountains cresttheir bald skulls through the smog. by nightwe bed one another like declarationsof war, rise like constellations in a holy dark.prayer of asphalt. prayer of dried leaves.prayer of floodlights along the highway,some pantomimed foothold among the absenceof stars. climb wild. climb bone-heavyand desperate, heart like a pairof cupped hands; flesh sieve remembering,brimming, e
sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.the species invents propheciesall of which contain terrorsex;a beleaguered sun collapses into itself2.It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programmingand describes the inertia as unforgivable.Outside the grief, the cardboard:Every time you teach a computer about distancethe terrorists win.In every scenario: No colorado left,and survivors leave messagesfor the future.Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,he thought of that day.The committee was rightto describe space as an absence.3.The more artisticof the species' prophecies include fieldsSomepresent ideassuch as here and thererelative to the everywhere of the other thing.The other thing is often the causeof whatever terror has been imagined.The terror, of course, being another word for nothingness.4.someone is remembering the pacific-a maniac fires his rifle into a crowdlater, the news interviews a woman,"All i remember are balloons"they say this is w
Signing in KoreanSigning in Korean as rain fallsin another land, and within my mind.A robe of cranes wraps around mywillow's body, following my every move.I gaze through my fingers as they weaveand separate the rain turned to icewith hands that flit and beat silentlyon a petrified drumthrough the constantly shifting airfrom which snow will soon driftwith the flight of cranesinto another land, signing in Korean.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again