The red distance
of radio towers above us.
My days a rat king.
The ocean without sleep.
All in Poetry
The red distance
of radio towers above us.
My days a rat king.
The ocean without sleep.
I was Chana once,
on the verge of choking
and devotion for the locusts
in my mouth.
And now my son is screaming in the backseat, near-impact,
while all I can hear are tires slipping on gravel and how,
in some twisted way, that father didn’t want his child to
be afraid, and how Styrofoam can feel cold as a knife
A woman at the store: I’ve had two,
I wear Spanx with jeans. I am Spanx,
holding myself in shape against the world.
Maybe we never figure out how to figure.
his ears picking up on the announcement of
corn chowder from twelve to two
but also hearing the thin, white-mist howl of wolves
pushed past wet muzzles and blue-dotted tongues
(they go in caves, Danny, where it’s warm)
Wallabies stop; sniff the air, bound off up the hills and away.
Snakes take to their hollows. Something has changed but
the sun stays the same and the heat and not even a cloud
in the sky when the mullock heaps stir. Hands sifting for gold
emerge from the piles, push back stones from the dirt.
I get caught in the headlights
of our love, and moon about intersections
like a lost traffic cone, orange and useless.
Nothing was ever just the wind or the house settling or probably nothing ever again would be afterwards. Our wait for silence was actually a vigil for the noise we had so missed.
He fouls. He fouls over and over. We feel
bad about his fouling. We sing
Root root root for the home. Home has plates
for everyone, and one diamond.
Call me Biter:
rubber and blood,
just an accident.
Five minutes turn into ten minutes turn into forty while thin tendrils of blood are running across His arm, down His hand, and he’s crying because His ‘go-to’ has finally collapsed from hundreds of jagged needles, missed shots, and dehydration.
It’s Las Vegas in the mind,
so everything stays there.
It’s honor. It’s horror. Divorce,
fake as it is, bloody on the dash.
My wolf, I have your four long legs
but I have not learned to run. My wolf,
some scents are missing, in the tapestry
Think of me as the
right moment to
bloom into sickness----
But we are better than what we run into.
We do not call out for the judgements, they just come
and come and come
and cross over us like birds uprooted,
fleeing something else.
There are people all over
this town with my
teeth marks in them.
When I fall, my head hits a desk,
leaves a gash. I dip my fingers
before heading to the nurse, show Mr. Crone.
Thin he answers.
Cut the turf of the wall. Don’t take him out
Through the door. What leaves that way
Can also come back. Now the corpse is through; seal the gap.
His fingers are stiffening; give him his axe.
when you smell fire & charred fur on mineral bite of winter
I am thinking of you
Cash only for the
needle of gin, confetti
pitch of the sax,
and Capone.