the hipster apocalypse

when the world ends,

there will be no vintage merlot

or aged cheddar cracked from

great waxed wheels

american spirits will become currency

-also accepted, coins pressed from empty pabst cans

and when funds run low, 

the only violence in the new world order

will be caused by a collective and universal

nic-fit

when the world ends, and the sun

is blotted from the sky

flannel will be repurposed to it's

orignal function

and beards will be required for much more than

to be, in some tired way, ironic.

the radio static will signal

every hour, on the hour

to anyone still out there, go North to Portland

we've got microbrews and moustache wax,

enough to go around

and from the great urban capitals, first to fall,

will come hordes of youths in plaid

kicking the rubble of their crumbled brownstones

and cursing a lack of wi-fi

when the world ends, there will be no

tumbles, flicks, or tweets

the hobbies previously used to buffer brew-pub

conversations

bee keeping, organic gardening, bicycle repair

will acquire sudden and monumental importance

and when the great migration from once-gentrified neighborhoods

commences, and the bearded, booted army

floods the forest on fixed-gears

we had better pray for clear bike-lanes

and someone waiting at the end of the road

with a camera

because even still, there is no journey worth making

unless someone is recording

and even though the world is done and we have been reduced to 

our most primitive state

they will still need something to blog about.

home, and the many definitions

i can still smell blood in the room your mama bore you

soaked into the wood panelling and flowered sheets

i want to lick the walls, but hold steady

fearing splinters, and the heavy choke of iron

at dinner, across the table, you drain glasses of wine

and watch birds fly low through the valley

while your mother laughs, teeth all too white, 

telling stories of your childhood I was never meant to hear

when we are in bed we peel the stickers from the ceiling that you

stuck there as a boy

and try to paste them to each other so that we, too

will glow like stars

but the backs are dusty and they crumble in our hands

like all your mountain relics, tucked away and left to rot

there are no houses for miles

only craggy rock and pine trees 

fanned out against the sky and bending 

with nostalgic weight, as if the branches could

arc down low enough for you to reach,

and catapult you to someplace newer, 

where your knees are less grass stained and

your father's more proud and 

you have something to show for your years

i am homesick for traffic lights, blaring car horns

hours spent pensively smoking on the fire escape,

a night barely dimmer than day

but we cannot leave, we are urged towards third helpings

you pour another glass of wine

i try not to cry

and all the while, mama laughs and laughs and laughs

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.