I say that no one is satiated. I say this with much urgency,
but this is a lie and nothing in text is earnest.
but this is a lie and nothing in text is earnest.
20100722
20100703
Absolutely No Drinking.
Until today, we were staying above a bar named
The Paris
employing only Irish men
who pour Redbreast a little shorter than I’d prefer.
In New York, I suffer my posture
and I want to let everyone know I drink whiskey,
and the long walks twist into delerium
and we get lost
and we try out both keys in every door
underneath a section of Hell’s Kitchen with only
a paper covered Modelo.
We return to the apartment above the bar where
some of the time I talk out my tired stories,
unknowing of whether I have retold them even here.
They were stories coarsely tuned to help me to escape,
but our memories are scattered all over, yes,
even here.
The ringer is how
I keep hoping that asking my father if he
needs any coffee
makes me seem more an Adult
and less a little girl.
The Paris
employing only Irish men
who pour Redbreast a little shorter than I’d prefer.
In New York, I suffer my posture
and I want to let everyone know I drink whiskey,
and the long walks twist into delerium
and we get lost
and we try out both keys in every door
underneath a section of Hell’s Kitchen with only
a paper covered Modelo.
We return to the apartment above the bar where
some of the time I talk out my tired stories,
unknowing of whether I have retold them even here.
They were stories coarsely tuned to help me to escape,
but our memories are scattered all over, yes,
even here.
The ringer is how
I keep hoping that asking my father if he
needs any coffee
makes me seem more an Adult
and less a little girl.
20100627
Squashing Season
Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings—always darker, emptier, simpler.— Nietzsche
derailment,
then the subsequent pacification
led me to here and without
saving for the swim back
underneath this year
not a question,
but a surprise:
I love a love, not a man
20100520
Education
“One should say before sleeping, ‘I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knees and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again.”--From an essay by W. B. Yeats
Education
The things I know about are
my plain, little hands. A pair,
and they spell things into the empty draft
like Singer,
rabidly,
seriously,
hoping my deaf and mute
friends will someday take the time
to hear my hungry/clanging message:
“ “
20100518
This is terrible.
I am so very afraid of everything I own
and of how it all owns me.
The cabin in my thoughts
is empty
save for white linens
and milled soap
my dog
my books
a shelf
shade
relief
snow.
This poem isn't soft. Instead it's spongy
and absorbent of what I can't say.
I would have rather it been soft.
Or even angry,
that he should know that he
could have talked to me about his
sadness.
I fear my own belongings,
my feelings, my pens.
I will write to you
secretly here,
but please don't tell anyone,
please don't look away.
and of how it all owns me.
The cabin in my thoughts
is empty
save for white linens
and milled soap
my dog
my books
a shelf
shade
relief
snow.
This poem isn't soft. Instead it's spongy
and absorbent of what I can't say.
I would have rather it been soft.
Or even angry,
that he should know that he
could have talked to me about his
sadness.
I fear my own belongings,
my feelings, my pens.
I will write to you
secretly here,
but please don't tell anyone,
please don't look away.
20100515
ROUGH DRAFT, OBVIOUSLY
I would like to be small. I want to fit inside
of a thimble. I want my guts to be accessible
with only slight pressure.
I would like to pass my time in some other way.
I would like to file away the parts of myself that
mimic my mother. I want them categorized,
so neatly organized until I am no reflection than
that of a moon: cloistered, motherless, alone.
I would like to be small. I want to fit inside
of a thimble. I want my guts to be accessible
with only slight pressure.
I would like to pass my time in some other way.
I would like to file away the parts of myself that
mimic my mother. I want them categorized,
so neatly organized until I am no reflection than
that of a moon: cloistered, motherless, alone.
20100502
20100214
20100117
1st Ode
When the young die, there are no estate sales.
There are just balloons excreting helium. They waltz with
streamers across the bottom of a room.
Whenever I die, I'll hibernate. I eat in preparation for this.
Whenever I'm dead, I'll still worry about dying.
I'll still think I didn't wind up,
didn't lick you enough,
didn't crack when I was sad.
There are just balloons excreting helium. They waltz with
streamers across the bottom of a room.
Whenever I die, I'll hibernate. I eat in preparation for this.
Whenever I'm dead, I'll still worry about dying.
I'll still think I didn't wind up,
didn't lick you enough,
didn't crack when I was sad.
Monthly
my body is always buzzing
my eyes are cold and bulging from my sockets like varnished golf balls
my swatches of skin color don't hide the ingrown hairs
how I long to be dark like the girls from high school
how I would imagine them naked in front of their mirrors
cupping their ripe and perfect breasts
their brown skin stretched perfectly over their bones
I could see a scalpel incise anywhere on their body and
their skin so soft it must splay open like a flower
my vagina does not allow itself to be touched
it sends messages to my body with such quickness and swelling
I truly am in the image of God
my reflection is as sterile and barren as the tallest whitest figure
and my fertility was gaping and hungry on the screen
until I strung it around my fork like a noodle
under your blanket in the dark
please, just leave me alone to read all of my newstand magazines
they are truly preparing me for my later trip to the parade in Hell
I'll see you there with my head on a stick and my baby ghost in my arms
Mortimer
The different rooms of this house host different parties. I invite ants and their ant ghosts up to bed. The dog used to lick them up like treats. Little black bones on his tongue.
Since the dog moved out, I stopped moving. I sold all of my books and so now my room echoes like the hallways on an ant farm. When he would fall asleep, I would plan out what else to purge.
To You Who Keeps Me Here Just For the Hell Of It
I gifted my dog to the new you.
'Clink' and then a monster. Your eyes at my back like my bedroom and sisters.
A spidery kit of legs wraps around you, and your eyes, again, at my back.
I can see my dainty little sister on her cigarette break at work,
So I think thoughts that you can see.
All her fragile little limbs encased, gingerly smoking and thinking.
I, Too Am Worried About the Environment
Our theories for loving steer us toward our partners.
Our fancy plans are left to fritter.
This socks the science into us as our partners size and weigh.
The wreaths of excuses we make are too large to fasten.
Also, we have no money.
The car industry will die and our dates will no longer be able to drive us around.
We will be forced cross on dark paths.
We will need to rendezvous while we eat.
We will suck the juice right out of the fruit.
Our fancy plans are left to fritter.
This socks the science into us as our partners size and weigh.
The wreaths of excuses we make are too large to fasten.
Also, we have no money.
The car industry will die and our dates will no longer be able to drive us around.
We will be forced cross on dark paths.
We will need to rendezvous while we eat.
We will suck the juice right out of the fruit.
Ode to New Handwriting (and Bonnie Prince Billy)
There were dogs all over the city.
I bolted an arrow to the air.
They barked at the sound of my metaphysical drilling.
Sometimes I try to yank my arrow towards me,
but mostly it chuckles and I walk by. Mostly
I pretend I wasn't walking by for it.
The people we see in our dreams, they're dreaming, too:
people on the bus, the little girl staring
at my tights, the
dogs, all of the people I've had sex with.
I slept with another woman, once.
We drank Hot Toddy and almost fell asleep in a movie.
The anticipation was unreal. I had always known.
Her lips were too soft. My hands, for the
life of them, couldn't figure out what to do next.
I held them very still. I waited
for it to be over. I pretended to be asleep.
The next morning, I was found ill at foul
news of the crossword. Saturday is actually
the hardest. Sunday is just a big Thursday.
I bolted an arrow to the air.
They barked at the sound of my metaphysical drilling.
Sometimes I try to yank my arrow towards me,
but mostly it chuckles and I walk by. Mostly
I pretend I wasn't walking by for it.
The people we see in our dreams, they're dreaming, too:
people on the bus, the little girl staring
at my tights, the
dogs, all of the people I've had sex with.
I slept with another woman, once.
We drank Hot Toddy and almost fell asleep in a movie.
The anticipation was unreal. I had always known.
Her lips were too soft. My hands, for the
life of them, couldn't figure out what to do next.
I held them very still. I waited
for it to be over. I pretended to be asleep.
The next morning, I was found ill at foul
news of the crossword. Saturday is actually
the hardest. Sunday is just a big Thursday.
Heavy Petting
All of the people in life, they're courting. They chase bosoms
and fondness and I hate to watch as they bend to pick up the waste.
All of the people in my life, they forgive me. They are patient
and feed me and I spoil for it as they kiss, grope, copulate.
I want to be immediate with everyone, as intimate as their courter.
I want to nestle, then eat a breakfast over our mutual anguish.
and fondness and I hate to watch as they bend to pick up the waste.
All of the people in my life, they forgive me. They are patient
and feed me and I spoil for it as they kiss, grope, copulate.
I want to be immediate with everyone, as intimate as their courter.
I want to nestle, then eat a breakfast over our mutual anguish.
We Request That You All Stop Dropping Your Lip
Women ride the bus with their children. Or as nurses,
toting their duds and scalpel. We file on at each stop
woman child nurse man woman child man nurse woman man child
Men ride the bus to meet the women.
They suspect we are translucent and supple. (We are not)
They suspect we are peeled and yawning. (We are not)
We see them peeking. You could hold the girth of the look
and guess the weight of it. It is full of expectancy and as round
as a baby's arm.
We are just like you, there are things we still carry.
We play with the grit in our teeth.
We rub our feet to stay warm.
We build shelves and cages and fix things around The House.
We cease loving out of circumstance.
toting their duds and scalpel. We file on at each stop
woman child nurse man woman child man nurse woman man child
Men ride the bus to meet the women.
They suspect we are translucent and supple. (We are not)
They suspect we are peeled and yawning. (We are not)
We see them peeking. You could hold the girth of the look
and guess the weight of it. It is full of expectancy and as round
as a baby's arm.
We are just like you, there are things we still carry.
We play with the grit in our teeth.
We rub our feet to stay warm.
We build shelves and cages and fix things around The House.
We cease loving out of circumstance.
How to Own Your Things
Open it up in the daytime, and the apartment is frigid
and thick with light. It glares at me and is full of everything I own.
I have a big book, Murphey Oil Soap, and a coffin.
At night, I gnaw on raw ginger root in the dark. I am very afraid
to turn off my T.V.
What would happen if I sat notably still, like an iron?
What if I dug straight into the sofa?
What if I were at the base of the sieve?
What would happen during that silence? (Besides my
obese, clapping thoughts. Or a murder.
Or my foxy roommate breezing through. She has
very straight teeth.)
Maybe a hymn would ebb and roll under our feet.
The gush would turn off the messages. It could cut the battery.
Will I die?
Will my animals stop trying to find me?
Questions are not fit for poems. Neither advice
nor tenderness. My methods and ways by which to survive
worked well, back then. Those systems
mean next to nothing, now.
I do remember changing the locks. I finger the keyholes once
in a while, entertaining the idea of meeting someone half-way.
Instead, the sounds of the 10 o'clock news bleed into my concerns.
I continue to pull away slowly, with precision and care. The clots
of glue make the best sound when they finally snap.
and thick with light. It glares at me and is full of everything I own.
I have a big book, Murphey Oil Soap, and a coffin.
At night, I gnaw on raw ginger root in the dark. I am very afraid
to turn off my T.V.
What would happen if I sat notably still, like an iron?
What if I dug straight into the sofa?
What if I were at the base of the sieve?
What would happen during that silence? (Besides my
obese, clapping thoughts. Or a murder.
Or my foxy roommate breezing through. She has
very straight teeth.)
Maybe a hymn would ebb and roll under our feet.
The gush would turn off the messages. It could cut the battery.
Will I die?
Will my animals stop trying to find me?
Questions are not fit for poems. Neither advice
nor tenderness. My methods and ways by which to survive
worked well, back then. Those systems
mean next to nothing, now.
I do remember changing the locks. I finger the keyholes once
in a while, entertaining the idea of meeting someone half-way.
Instead, the sounds of the 10 o'clock news bleed into my concerns.
I continue to pull away slowly, with precision and care. The clots
of glue make the best sound when they finally snap.
Your Relief
I switch,
I swat.
I think I am so sly.
I will refuse what is best.
I will keep talking.
I will very dearly need keeping.
(I am not a leader.
In the event of an emergency or flood,
a spark will slide down my throat.)
I swat.
I think I am so sly.
I will refuse what is best.
I will keep talking.
I will very dearly need keeping.
(I am not a leader.
In the event of an emergency or flood,
a spark will slide down my throat.)
A Parent's Advice
"The life of man upon earth is a warfare . . . "
— JOB 7:1
Hell is not a place where we can be alone.
We all choose each other on our whims, so:
nakedness,
and money, they're both poles.
We are chained and tethered to them.
— JOB 7:1
Hell is not a place where we can be alone.
We all choose each other on our whims, so:
nakedness,
and money, they're both poles.
We are chained and tethered to them.
Preachy Keen
"What do you do there, moon, in the sky? Tell me what you do, silent moon. When evening comes you rise and go contemplating wastelands; then you set."
-Giacomo Leopardi
Your friend? The word itself
leaves my mouth feeling sordid, filmy
and greased up. Like the bolts on the kennel
which I call my home. I am not your friend.
I paw the dark and wait for the dreams
and ignore my clock.
I am the plate-licker.
I tend to our garden only to feed you.
I miss the voices and the dog pissing on the floor.
The word piss lurches over my teeth,
killing my boredom. I tongue
the buzz of it, reel it around my mouth
and muscle. It helps me when I am in wait.
-Giacomo Leopardi
Your friend? The word itself
leaves my mouth feeling sordid, filmy
and greased up. Like the bolts on the kennel
which I call my home. I am not your friend.
I paw the dark and wait for the dreams
and ignore my clock.
I am the plate-licker.
I tend to our garden only to feed you.
I miss the voices and the dog pissing on the floor.
The word piss lurches over my teeth,
killing my boredom. I tongue
the buzz of it, reel it around my mouth
and muscle. It helps me when I am in wait.
Bartering for Jonathan
I drag my friends through the hulks of faces,
or complaints,
or trouble.
There are shelves and shelves of faces, all clamoring to
be chosen; or at the very least, peered at.
Sometimes I hook the mic to the hem of my dress,
and it trails through this library like a carcass.
or complaints,
or trouble.
There are shelves and shelves of faces, all clamoring to
be chosen; or at the very least, peered at.
Sometimes I hook the mic to the hem of my dress,
and it trails through this library like a carcass.
Half-Ode to J. Alfred Prufrock
When people hurt you, "they can't know what they do."
Or this is what the oppressed and optimistic must admit.
As I was sitting on a pincushion and trying to unbend
this needle, some strange force or magic was pushing from the underside.
Waste not, want not!
You can't make other people yeild for you,
you can only yeild, yourself.
Or this is what the oppressed and optimistic must admit.
As I was sitting on a pincushion and trying to unbend
this needle, some strange force or magic was pushing from the underside.
Waste not, want not!
You can't make other people yeild for you,
you can only yeild, yourself.
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