salted

in bed, i chew my fingernails and 

spit half moon slivers onto the carpet

you pace the room

not like some caged beast 

or flightless bird but

very much like a man empty

handed, reduced to frantic

flapping

it's midnight going on

the morning after and we're still here

you with your low anthem moaning

and me with my fingers bloody-tipped

and raw

i ask if you want to fuck

because we're bored, and the room is

too small

you respond uncapping

perfume bottles, setting them on 

the edge of the dresser

and praying for a quake

my legs spread

your hands shaking and we are all

rough and open wounds

pouring salt into each other 

never licking clean

snow

after the storm he tried to be brave

and ran barefoot through the snow

so that i would have a path to follow

i watched his toes swell up frozen, black

and stiff and threaten to detach themselves

from his body

it was the first time i ever loved

something rotten

and i thought of all the ways i could carry

his weight

when the snow came again and threatened to 

bury us behind already closed doors

in the quiet i let a record spin long after finishing

and he slept to face the wall

timed his breathing with the rhythmic looping

and the hollow vinyl scratches

and i wondered how i could love a man

so broken 

who spent his days curled up fetal

and his nights crunching ice between his teeth

sitting at the kitchen table

stalwart, stagnant and sick

when the snow melted

i taught him how to walk again 

one arm around his waist and another elbow deep 

digging down into his chest to try and

reignite his want for movement

and i 

wondered how i could love him so.


**you used threatened twice, dork!

i scratch my legs until they bleed
drip trickle down to my socks
stain the bike pedals
wash the pavement red

a work in progress - things to consider

poor little mountain boy
sheltered by your knotty pine
your mamma's bed
your sister's cries
the righteous blue unbending sky

and we made it to the top of that mountain, boy
with our hands held fast and our shoes laced tight
and i swear to god, i thought i'd die
under that righteous blue unbending sky

i don't know what it meant but i was something
to take home wrapped up in cellophane saved for tomorrow's meal
i was leftovers to share with your parents cos the rains came early this year
and the garden didn't yield much fruit

so with our hands held fast and our shoes laced tight
i filled up the tank and i drove to the heights of
the mountains that watched you grow into your skin
all painted different shades of blue

i wanted to taste good, i wanted to mean it
crush strawberries into my skin until i'm as stained as you
roll around in salt and let does bring their knobby knees to my bed


***

and we made it to the top of that mountain boy,
to your mama's bed and your knotty pine
and i swear to god i thought i'd die
under that sky so big it made my soul sing poetry
in the house your daddy built
on that grass your boy feet trampled

and you're all grown up now, big man with a
big vocabulary
but when i get the nerve to look you straight in the face
i still see a baby crying for the treetops.

andromeda strain

she used to comb her daughter's hair

and hold discarded strands under her tongue

like salted pearls, 

discreet

they were naked together      

bathing in milk sent from the promised land in preparation for the gilded altar

built from the rusted remains of promise rings and pressed coins

she gave her prize to the ocean's son

still lusting secret for the crest of waves to flood

the garden and wash away the

impending rot

colored jade, she rasied the flag and

brought ships from 

beneath the horizon

while her daughter set her hair alight and wept with the burden of burning

though she kissed the mouths of kings with bloody lips, 

it was algae that made her t r e m b l e 

when she shoveled fistfuls in her mouth, 

tasting the ashy scent of her betrayed womb

and when the tangled web of saliva  dripping from snake tongues 

froze her dusty hatred, it trapped her

daughter's moaning over torn and trampled skirt hems in her fist, 

hidden like crab shells buried on the beach

chains brushed her bare thigh

over and over again

until bruises in the shape of scorn were all the

universe could see, sour and yellow, eternal

do you love me still, mitera?

never and always until the day that i die.

hedonisticbarbariansscreamintostonepillows

eloquentlyexpressinganunheededneedforhumancontact

speakingbecomesdifficultwithdrylipsand

heavytonguespushingfutilelyagainstcrackedtombstoneteeth

everylieisbuiltofwordsandevery

wordisbuiltoflies,haphazardlystackedandpressedtogether

      earnestlyattemptingtopullmeaningfromfalseness

truthwasneversomethingeasy,truthwasnevermeantforease.

here,inquietspaceswherethethickairmakesbreathingsomedauntingtask

eventhestrongestmenfindcheststightandmusclesweak

yelllouderintonightsdarkerthanhiddenspaces

undercitytraintracksshelteringvalianturbanheroes

sneakingsecondstosmokedowntofingersbeforesharpeninginkdippedswords   yelllouderintoemptyspaceslargerthanthedeadman'srottingabdomen

       openinguptosunshineandthesquirmingcrawlofmaggots

undulatingoutwardtowardsbrokenmudpuddlepromises

indoingthis,completioncanbeneared

truthwasneversomethingeasy,truthwasnevermeantforease.

and she shouted

YES, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN

in that exasperated tone that said

please stop being such a complete 

and total fuckwad and start

making me feel like a proper human being

in a way she said

I MEAN SOMETHING 

when she really meant 

I FEEL SOMETHING

and it's all full of life until her throat

goes dry

(or maybe it's from the cigarettes)

but it doesn't even matter because he

talks back like it's his business to, with his

oh, you mean something?

i still don't feel a sense of obligation

and she shouts

always with his smart retorts

and her always with yes

but you know what i mean

you are the most selfish person i have ever met, but that's ok.  the understanding that you exist in a universe alone, floating out amongst stars and lines, is necessary to our survival.  comprehension likens itself to water.

wake up and wonder.  wake up and doubt. wake up and feel guilty for the way i thought of your mouth when i was writing in helvetica.  today is the same as the day before and will be the same as the day to come:  i light the green signal fire and hope that you can see it from across the causeway.  i light the signal fire and hope you do the same.

you are straight lines and perfect squares spread out across your bedroom floor cut with a pair of scissors sharp enough to draw blood.  these bits of paper lay like land mines on carpet and it is such an effort to tip-toe closer, quiet, unseen and unheard like the good fuck i am.  

she is, of course, the girl who knows her place.

you are the elements of typographic design.  with a penchant for san serif fonts, you pay attention to kerning.  you pay attention to the width of your counters.  you pay attention to the height of your ascenders.  everything is intentional and it's ok, because in the end, it's all about legibility.  you make yourself painfully clear and when everything you say is apparent and obvious as soon as i get close enough to read i have no excuses anymore.  i can never say i failed to comprehend.

you are far away and secret.  a page in a diary.  a typeface so perfect, you never even know it's there.  helvetica incarnate.

the truth of it

(a found poem)

the real man is a dirty revolutionary

too human for blood and tears

brainwashed, he makes everything

of milkweed poison

and wears a bullet proof vest

but never the cloak and dagger

for his heart

ˆ

the true man is part pf a network of species

is guided by the

experience of action

by a feeling of great love that occupies everything

his love is alive

his motivation precedes influence

there is none so sweet as the man without bones

to carry his children 

too alive to quit

the real man

is a revolutionary

is a dirty child of gaia

is part of a network

is coming home to you

i don't know what to say when i have to say something

about a universal experience

because i am small and don't know what the words universal experience mean

i am small and i only know about the immediate tragedy

of waking up soaked in sweat, discovering that i've run out of milk

and being baffled by an inability to recall my dreams

i want to be a painter, i want to be able to play music, i want to be able to say anything and have it mean anything, i want the world to be art relavent and moving

but instead i am small, i am only a girl, i only write poems on the backs of napkins when all the serious writers have those black leather books and those felt tipped pens

i am small, i am only a girl, i am still coloring with crayons and barely managing to stay inside the lines

there is this word potential and it is thrown around  like something cavalier, it is thrown around like he loves me not daisy petals, it is thrown around like a word worth throwing around and i don't understand

because i am small, there is me in one room and my potential in the other and it is like a lover who i've been arguing with over something trivial, like a lover who is now pouting with his lip stuck out and wounded, and me not knowing what to say to make things right again

there is me in one room and my potential in the other and the way that word is thrown around you'd think it was something important, but i am small, i am just a girl, and i only know about the immediate tragedy of not living to the fullest 

and there is that word again

and me not knowing what to say to convince the universe that i am.

rest-less, none for the wicked girl

with twitching legs

being called to sunshine and tulips

when there is only night-time

to be found

no sleep, the time set aside for

late night musings and

frantic pen scribbles

scratching the hours into cardboard

philosophy talks and

whiskey sips and promises

to save our livers tomorrow,

tomorrow

photographs are strung on fishing wire

criss-crossing over horizon lines

and in each picture the likeness of a ghost

two eyes, two hands

one open mouth frozen in timely utterances

of absolute fact

the windows are fogged

the sun is coming up

some things have been ruined beyond repair

fissures running

too deep, glass cracked and

reflection obscured

my responses are strictly

pavlovian

so when the clock hands wind

their lazy way around the face

the only natural response

is to weep

i have made a river

but i cannot build a boat

so i will float, i will float

spiral towards the great drain

big sucking hole in my belly

gaping mouth prepared to swallow

every part of me that is

broken glass and splinters

and spit back all the skin