I.
Wind rattling trees
hasn’t ever felt so warm
than now, here inside.
II.
For six weeks each year
Midwestern trees protest man’s
want of privacy.
III.
Spirit of today,
wrapped up like small wooden gifts,
opens without sound.
IV.
Does nature appear
more beautiful sitting down
behind a window?
V.
Hill Paradox: a
stare directly at one side
reveals the other.
VI.
Does nature appear
more beautiful sitting down
behind a window?
VII.
The beaver does not
think, it builds cyclopean
mounds with its mean mouth.
VIII.
This sea is endless:
gold waves with brown swells ask the
horizon “what now?”
Monday, October 5, 2009
On Brutalism: A Bedtime Story
A body sits, exposing the corner
of a bone colored mattress.
The outline of a man discards
a damp down comforter. Noting,
as it flops loosely to the floor,
how easily weight could be
hidden beneath its subtlety.
“I wasn’t always this
stern with the others.”
A thin cast iron bed frame projects
a careful shadow on a body
concealed in rose-pink sheets.
It shrugs a leg, revealing raw
scrapes from a safety razor blade.
“They listened….”
The shape of a girl clutches
a wet pillow to its chest. It
has been consuming the dolor
and cheap make up of a child
being taught to carry itself
like an adult.
“They didn’t talk back.”
The man stands, closes
in to kiss its forehead
then stops to watch his
shadow cast over it.
He notes the white of
its eyes slowly churn
the color of concrete
as his back lurches
a shiver toward the
door. He rubs his
hands on his pants
then on themselves.
His gorged lips
derail then
wrestle
a smile
“Don’t forget to
wash up before bed.”
of a bone colored mattress.
The outline of a man discards
a damp down comforter. Noting,
as it flops loosely to the floor,
how easily weight could be
hidden beneath its subtlety.
“I wasn’t always this
stern with the others.”
A thin cast iron bed frame projects
a careful shadow on a body
concealed in rose-pink sheets.
It shrugs a leg, revealing raw
scrapes from a safety razor blade.
“They listened….”
The shape of a girl clutches
a wet pillow to its chest. It
has been consuming the dolor
and cheap make up of a child
being taught to carry itself
like an adult.
“They didn’t talk back.”
The man stands, closes
in to kiss its forehead
then stops to watch his
shadow cast over it.
He notes the white of
its eyes slowly churn
the color of concrete
as his back lurches
a shiver toward the
door. He rubs his
hands on his pants
then on themselves.
His gorged lips
derail then
wrestle
a smile
“Don’t forget to
wash up before bed.”
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Vingettes On Direction
I remember the night we met,
You just got back from Pittsburgh
You were a cosigner of the notorious agreement
That would bind us forever, in a pond full of discarded tire swings
Treading water, we broke the surface
Bashing like the best
Dirty mana all like liquid stained glass
In the sunset of that night
You told me you might see me again
In September’s numbered days
Bindi blazin’ like a mood ring
I went to catch a plane
In my butterfly net
You were worried about me
So you gave me sordid means to protect myself
A pink-transparent automatic rifle
Legal Weapon
In the age of Aquarius
I have it holstered to my every facet
In a leather antique strap
Count to eight and waiting
For the second round
Not enough arms for all the ammunition
But a heart full of storage space
Some wooden crates with your name
In my left ventricle
Portrait of Le Petit Prince
As a young adult
Regina is a tiny planet
You planted flowers on,
And I watch you draw all my secret desires
A trick you picked up from someone
When you were little
My body would encase every perfect little lamb
You made me desire you
I became your sidekick on a part-time basis
But sharp-shootin’ wrists hung limp
While I stood by mute
The silence of a ultra-violent admiration
You commanded everything
To back up
A velvet rope signifying arm’s length
For us to stand behind
Some inside jokes and Private Eyes
Playing on my little red turntable
Shot-glass with a matching fire-truck
And Minnesota vodka, healing aneurysm deaths
Pre-emptive sarsaparilla, for Butch Cassidy
And his Sundance Kid
The moon radiates united
With industrial park lights
And although we hide, our hearts are swelling
Ready to burst with night-passions
Adorned with the jewelry of the silver anodyne
Our lycanthropy is kept at socially acceptable volumes
And we still howl sometimes
But it is softly, and in each others ears
Our mutual cave of Echo
Conveniently located between our faces
I get lost in your beard,
And all it’s beautiful possibilities
While you try to imagine
Where all my silver hair will be
You are Cary Grant
In a Mexican wrestling mask,
And I am a gypsy in pleated pants
A little female vagabond succumb to the
Ebb and flow of magic and the lunar cycle
You stooped to see my possibility
And this was our Holy Almost
Memories left incomplete
A history in a shoe box, a shoe box sent to sea
Drift west young man,
And make a newspaper sailor hat
In my absence
And I will honor you with theft
My hand to caress
A voodoo doll you gave me
Of yourself
Each day I reverse it’s spell
And kiss it’s hands
And trace it’s tattoos with my finger-tips
I’ll see you again soon
The next eclipse.
You just got back from Pittsburgh
You were a cosigner of the notorious agreement
That would bind us forever, in a pond full of discarded tire swings
Treading water, we broke the surface
Bashing like the best
Dirty mana all like liquid stained glass
In the sunset of that night
You told me you might see me again
In September’s numbered days
Bindi blazin’ like a mood ring
I went to catch a plane
In my butterfly net
You were worried about me
So you gave me sordid means to protect myself
A pink-transparent automatic rifle
Legal Weapon
In the age of Aquarius
I have it holstered to my every facet
In a leather antique strap
Count to eight and waiting
For the second round
Not enough arms for all the ammunition
But a heart full of storage space
Some wooden crates with your name
In my left ventricle
Portrait of Le Petit Prince
As a young adult
Regina is a tiny planet
You planted flowers on,
And I watch you draw all my secret desires
A trick you picked up from someone
When you were little
My body would encase every perfect little lamb
You made me desire you
I became your sidekick on a part-time basis
But sharp-shootin’ wrists hung limp
While I stood by mute
The silence of a ultra-violent admiration
You commanded everything
To back up
A velvet rope signifying arm’s length
For us to stand behind
Some inside jokes and Private Eyes
Playing on my little red turntable
Shot-glass with a matching fire-truck
And Minnesota vodka, healing aneurysm deaths
Pre-emptive sarsaparilla, for Butch Cassidy
And his Sundance Kid
The moon radiates united
With industrial park lights
And although we hide, our hearts are swelling
Ready to burst with night-passions
Adorned with the jewelry of the silver anodyne
Our lycanthropy is kept at socially acceptable volumes
And we still howl sometimes
But it is softly, and in each others ears
Our mutual cave of Echo
Conveniently located between our faces
I get lost in your beard,
And all it’s beautiful possibilities
While you try to imagine
Where all my silver hair will be
You are Cary Grant
In a Mexican wrestling mask,
And I am a gypsy in pleated pants
A little female vagabond succumb to the
Ebb and flow of magic and the lunar cycle
You stooped to see my possibility
And this was our Holy Almost
Memories left incomplete
A history in a shoe box, a shoe box sent to sea
Drift west young man,
And make a newspaper sailor hat
In my absence
And I will honor you with theft
My hand to caress
A voodoo doll you gave me
Of yourself
Each day I reverse it’s spell
And kiss it’s hands
And trace it’s tattoos with my finger-tips
I’ll see you again soon
The next eclipse.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sleeping as a Series of Shapes
Woke up frequently together
with your brother you talked
about familial responsibility.
Two blue shirts from Alaska
creased underneath the weight
of a couple more hours
of sleep.
Drank blood for the first time.
It tasted like cola, it
dribbled down your cheek.
A French ship picked up a sailor
in sixteen-fifty-three.
Eight A.M
or something. Construction
work never ends apparently.
Goose flesh precedes the
the skinny dip taken. Cold
tonight, it’s late. A haze
seen from a distance an its
eventual sweep curtains
across the bay in heavy
breaths. Yard lights,
crickets, frog and
squirrel noises.
What will the future be like
fifty years from this moment?
Space tourism, satellite cafes, x-ray
glasses and crystal power harnessed.
Wonder if your sister has ever
thought about having kids?
Three altogether: two girls
and a boy for balance.
How did anyone ever settle and
inhabit what is known as the “Arctic?”
Men thought it a challenge,
no other reason was needed.
What do you know that is
not fantastical but true?
Time whistles
like a vacuum
with your brother you talked
about familial responsibility.
Two blue shirts from Alaska
creased underneath the weight
of a couple more hours
of sleep.
Drank blood for the first time.
It tasted like cola, it
dribbled down your cheek.
A French ship picked up a sailor
in sixteen-fifty-three.
Eight A.M
or something. Construction
work never ends apparently.
Goose flesh precedes the
the skinny dip taken. Cold
tonight, it’s late. A haze
seen from a distance an its
eventual sweep curtains
across the bay in heavy
breaths. Yard lights,
crickets, frog and
squirrel noises.
What will the future be like
fifty years from this moment?
Space tourism, satellite cafes, x-ray
glasses and crystal power harnessed.
Wonder if your sister has ever
thought about having kids?
Three altogether: two girls
and a boy for balance.
How did anyone ever settle and
inhabit what is known as the “Arctic?”
Men thought it a challenge,
no other reason was needed.
What do you know that is
not fantastical but true?
Time whistles
like a vacuum
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Supe O' the Deigh
I cut my fingers on the cheese grater of logic
And strawberry jam creeps down the drain
As holes like little correlating scales prompt me
To call in the final favor owed to me by Aqua Man
My open palms reaching out through slimy sewers,
And into adolescent streams
Finally cupping the breasts of Mother Ocean
I beseech her on her daughter’s wedding day
For a flashflood to come across the prairies
Saline revenge against the poisoned ivy and the stinging nettles
Benten gave me a one-eyed gambler’s luck
And I know my song-request will be granted
Before I’ve even fastened my patent leather shoes
I truck over yonder
Spinning out of control, rolling forward
At an unreasonable wine-drunk pace
So
With one fluid motion, I tear the training wheels off
And simultaneously open twin wounds
In my slender sides
That gush the gradated color of rust
Spilling tones of orange and brown across the asphalt
With metallic flecks of pink spraying outwards
Like sparks from a welders torch
I am a blinding spectacle
Now and forever
An open book of disquiet*
A non-sequential autobiography
Written in a cryptic language
One that we all speak, but seldom stoop to understand
I hang my head in exhaustion
Noticing the slit of beauty in my navel
I decide to travel there
A temporary trail a la Hansel and Gretel
Will take me to a candied destiny
And a bodily inferno
Who knows when I'll come back?
There will be no answers
In the back of the oven.
My co-worker says:
“You look like a cross between a French tart, the Wicked Witch of the West, and a gypsy.”
I welcome his enthusiasm
And he gives me cues to smile for the rest of the day
I glance nervously over my shoulder at him
And breathily mouthing “line”
He rolls his eyes
As if we were playing dice
I catch them as they crackle back from against the glass doors
And see that it is time for me to curtsy backwards
Away from dirty tables, and sexual innuendo
Pleated black pants
Flapping in the breeze, I skulk away
Knowing that for now I am saved
And strawberry jam creeps down the drain
As holes like little correlating scales prompt me
To call in the final favor owed to me by Aqua Man
My open palms reaching out through slimy sewers,
And into adolescent streams
Finally cupping the breasts of Mother Ocean
I beseech her on her daughter’s wedding day
For a flashflood to come across the prairies
Saline revenge against the poisoned ivy and the stinging nettles
Benten gave me a one-eyed gambler’s luck
And I know my song-request will be granted
Before I’ve even fastened my patent leather shoes
I truck over yonder
Spinning out of control, rolling forward
At an unreasonable wine-drunk pace
So
With one fluid motion, I tear the training wheels off
And simultaneously open twin wounds
In my slender sides
That gush the gradated color of rust
Spilling tones of orange and brown across the asphalt
With metallic flecks of pink spraying outwards
Like sparks from a welders torch
I am a blinding spectacle
Now and forever
An open book of disquiet*
A non-sequential autobiography
Written in a cryptic language
One that we all speak, but seldom stoop to understand
I hang my head in exhaustion
Noticing the slit of beauty in my navel
I decide to travel there
A temporary trail a la Hansel and Gretel
Will take me to a candied destiny
And a bodily inferno
Who knows when I'll come back?
There will be no answers
In the back of the oven.
My co-worker says:
“You look like a cross between a French tart, the Wicked Witch of the West, and a gypsy.”
I welcome his enthusiasm
And he gives me cues to smile for the rest of the day
I glance nervously over my shoulder at him
And breathily mouthing “line”
He rolls his eyes
As if we were playing dice
I catch them as they crackle back from against the glass doors
And see that it is time for me to curtsy backwards
Away from dirty tables, and sexual innuendo
Pleated black pants
Flapping in the breeze, I skulk away
Knowing that for now I am saved
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
