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.
All in Poetry
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.
We paint ourselves a mingled memory
of wet words in a clinging storm
that congeals pleasure into folds
and bitter flesh into pulpiness.
My mother wants the dead to go away,
tired of how they pop up among the list of the living,
in whatever the last profile picture they selected
not knowing it was the last.
how she stays silent the whole time.
Her eyes are closed and her lashes fan
out across her cheek:
I decided that this is what religion looks like.
In the bar, Miss Carey’s song on, “Honey.”
If you were ten years younger, had no kid
wee’d still be smoking along the river,
watching Frogtown ducks swimming in the dark.
My daughter’s mother
drowned her & now
she is my mother, too. I let
her nurse, whiskers
to me & from her strength
a wilderness
watching the boys whiz past, skating into
each other like awkward buffalo; wanting
to talk about the boys; pretending you don’t
want to talk about the boys; double checking
your makeup; going to the snack bar for nachos
Yellow now and higher
on this straight stretch,
it moves as strangely
as you -- wheeled home
the last time, your left hand
grasping for my right.
Most of the time, the chick eats. Then
grows. Eventually flies to another’s
nest, still incapable of affection.
Like she knows she is adopted.