crepuscular light, unequivocal sky
sun dunks below the horizon
as the knobby moon flushes with envy
vertebrates of mountains bulge from the earth
quiet and dangerous
like the lick-tick-tocking of time
applause from the foliage,
whistles from the trees,
a wind chime's eulogy the last hymn of the evening
"you're either sylvia plath or dr. seuss. Either way, you can never win."
animal noises hang crystallized
from the plate of my mouth,
the lilt of archipelago gusts
meets skin, pores, tilted straws,
the cavernous geology of my
veins. alien valves mine
nectared love and return it like voice
to a microphone—unadorned
and expecting nothing in return.
my cardinal senses, they right themselves
by your rise and descent waist side.
I am swallowing hard in the mirror,
like stacked colored glass or
pebbled beaches holding secrets
in their muggy fissures.
babies return to the sea by your song,
waddling by starlight till foam meets
throat and the threat of foxes
dissolves in the blue mist.
let’s role play, I’m the pestle and
you’re the powder dilated
along the yawn of the dish.
I’ll cake you into the pores, you bond
ornament to my edifice, and soft
as the moon to the grass, I’ll open
you up and lay you out bare.
Your personality is too big for your body.
Your body needs more fat.
I’m afraid your next downtown antic,
your next swig of brown booze
might shatter your bones
or tear your skin right off those
toothpick tight muscle fibers.
do you remember
Rocky and Bullwinkle black
and purple stars?
what about Taco Tuesday slime linoleum
and cheerleader tug-o-wars?
I think you metaphorically
smoked cigarettes all the time
back before that was even an option.
something tells me the first look
you gave your mother was a scowl.
do you hate people because they fail you?
or do you hate people so they can’t fail you?
which planet are you on now night gazer?
the purple one with velvet curtains?
sort of a last resort prom date
hooked on hard crafts,
non-necessities crawling out
of the other end of evaporation.
"good morning, reindeer.
good morning, dove."
dazed and confused Snow White
with a parade of woodland creatures
and a halo of tweety birds
gargling around your head.
you are just shy of the target
like forgetting the salt
and only realizing it
after the pan is out of the oven.
but it's alright.
the wind will keep moving your hair.
your identities will orbit one another
like constellations afraid
of their own back sides.
maybe one day you will be internet famous.
one of my least favorite questions: “what are you going to do with your writing?” as if when a chef tells you he’s a chef, you say, “what are you going to do with that food?” Cook, damnit. I’m going to cook those goddamn words and use metaphors too immodestly and you’ll send it back to the kitchen and after it hits the great mandibles of the disposal, you’ll not get another dish of mine. you'll not spend another minute in the great chambered restaurant of my words. you’ll be escorted for having bad taste and it won’t be until well beyond the parking lot that you realize maybe a little pepper was what you needed after all.
somewhere in the almost translucent folds
of my cells, herby nodes extend toward
the surface moody, raw, iodized day
breathes ancient down the neck of my jacket.
I can’t believe I convinced him of the
virtuousness of change, to cold turkey that
blissful, lacey inertia like a bad
habit or carbohydrates or regret.
stopping is a human condition, dear,
used to compensate the wild, persistent
expansion of the cosmos keep tight and
sweet inside like valentines or carrots.
greet the stain of ginger on your rice
paper skin there’s merit in going no
where there’s value in lying unfurnished
ready to be fed
I am desirable! I am ferocious! I am the keeper of the lion’s tongue!
my body is perfect in the way it functions
in the way it beats along without knowing, like a bookmark in an unread book
why shouldn’t someone be put to rest in the space between my lashes? why shouldn’t someone find solace in the quiet spoon between my ear and neck?
my valentine fingers, the tiny microscopic buds gripping my hair, the way my skin flushes at the tiniest change in the air
my body is of the cosmos, it knows intimately the magnetic structure of the earth, it hears the radio wave cry at the edge of the universe, pink and static, finding the way like a cloud of dust escaping hatch-marked couch cushions
my third eye is somewhere near the ocean, my third ear a knob deep in the folds of a tree
my second heart is in the desert, padding in the naked brush like a lizard, dodging fossils.
skyscraper song, my body is a song, spider web limbs, sturdy and long
what a shame to not love it unconditionally
Pseudo-indie yellow DTs on a park bench in
front of the Thames, pow-wow illusions of a
schizophrenic Wisconsinite, total recall:
how long has the library been sanctuary for
those unable to cope with their social life?
Litany penned in the rocks in the bottom
of a well, “it’s like 8,000 frequent flier miles
to China, Pink Boy!” I could have fallen asleep in
that living room with display cases of dead babies
and an upside down Christmas tree that I
thought was an artistic representation of
grapes, the one food here that doesn’t taste different.
Waiter, there are date rape drugs in my soup!
That feeling of Jake pounding for Pete—as if
an asteroid the shape of a mattress spring hit
Teddington and only your spine knows how many
are dead. Wildly articulate representations of
reality! Perspicuous and well-defined theories!
I don’t get the queen, don’t ask me to
explain it. If this were a beehive, a drone would
have already broken his dick off in her and
died. I’m American, I’m allowed to be
blasphemous. Don’t ask me to explain it.