The sand in my hair,
the sand in my shoes near the satin-coco lining— a dolphin washed ashore,
your mouth the memory of a rooster on top a hanging silence…
All in Poetry
The sand in my hair,
the sand in my shoes near the satin-coco lining— a dolphin washed ashore,
your mouth the memory of a rooster on top a hanging silence…
We drove to Washington, DC, waving
our hands through the sage haze so we could
see the road, stretched our legs at the Museum of Tolerance
looking for whales.
It is terrible luck to carry a woman on a ship like this.
I carry this woman here, hidden, so there were two aboard.
The sail runs up, with a white flag, made of lace and satin,
tied at the neck with pearls and something blue.
Revenge is one
of the first stories
my grandmother
read to me
when she warned my mother
I was a magnet for
impurities.
I had a brother, an older brother,
who at ten years old was left at
the train station.
In front of a fireplace of mastodonic size
she stares at the shape she might create
but she finds difficulty solving this one
The riptide took a man today. You will find love.
I stood there yesterday, felt the muscle and teeth of water.
I still have bite marks.
I learned to cleave through the whirlwinds on his back
—unclaimed lacerations,
bullet holes gaping
on forsaken walls. Mercy
His shining ass in the camera lens is art in action. His fucking is pretend only because he lets us know it is. Johnathan Groff eats all of us out at once when he slides down between her skirt and skin.
I am not a painter. I am not a happy person.
I do not see a blade and think mountaintop,
I do not see turpentine and think fresh start.
a few constellations I don’t recognize / here / all I see are / road kill deer / pistols / rifles / here / in my head / last night’s storm still / blazes /
Searching Huffington Post for articles
on "Compassionate ways to ask
your spouse for a divorce"did not prove
fruitful.
I can’t do stupid today.
These aren’t my pants (or jam hands).
I left behind a glass slipper
in a bottomless pit—
Hope and results are different…one doesn’t create the other
[Looking at himself in a mirror]
There’s a reliable disappointment
I see the pattern now
deep in the blue blocks
that keep me in puzzles.
I would have to make a career, stomping around
like a mastodon to find a portal, some rough crack
in the old world for us to spark through. I would have
to head for an impossible destination,
What is a human besides meat?
Does electricity really create what we call
life & what does that exactly make you?
There’s a heart in a bag (face it) throw it over the
edge that thing pumping like fury like fire inside
you never belonged to him
Is there anything to call that? Something that’s more
than you should but not so much you know it’s wrong?
I understand. I
tell her that
sometimes, my
arms bend back.