if each letter was a sound,
my name would be nails
through a cloud.
each sparrowboned flit
of a word would ring
and bounce around
the heads all over the city.
blood drips from the ears
of everyone who listened.
the silly vowels ripping up
your mouth
if you said them wrong
and so soon those mouths
would sew themselves together-
not even a whisper
could hatch from there
to singe lipskin or scrape a knee.
then all there’d be
would be the wait in silence
until the words writ down
begin making cuts in our eyes
when we read them.
there's a lake and the bottom you'll find all my friends
Ask me anything
May 10, 2013
hello, hollow.
April 29, 2013
some given weak
taking a whole day,
but the boredom still cuts
people’s arms off in a blink
like a wall when I’m chasing you.
I spend my years here
wondering how short the sun
makes this time feel for you.
do you breathe and the fog’s
already settled back in your lungs?
are the orange pricks dulled
in the time it took your eyes to open?
all the months and weeks
that nothing happens here I am glad.
So glad this time
is flat seconds to you
so when you’re
down and the grey
creeps back
to your sunboy skin,
I can get some glow
to have you
at the end of this
chain again.
April 25, 2013
legs trouble
the trouble with a leg
is how hard you have,
through the middle,
to hit the bothersome bone
before detaching.
stage fright and you could be
gnawing for hours for a trophy.
yet, somehow, the corners
still cut appendages clean off,
still ruin symmetry all at once
and leave the sections
fine and separate with no
needle or strings.
at the end of a hall,
no matter how hard you fixate,
a blink will leave you missing
most a body. and no thinking
of a cinched torso filled with
lungs and fleeting guts
will save them
from wherever it is
the knives are coming.
from whatever cutting gaze
tears up the walls
and leaves finger trails
where you’re walking,
trailing your own blood
along the carpet.
April 15, 2013
stomp the dirt town
with all the place they’ve gave us
we should be roaming from sun up.
all the space they think we need
should be painted mess and tacked,
pinned and felted up by now.
we move and miles away
they will run like a lack
is our problem,
but the more we get the less
the need there is to search out mounds
or press our bitter thumbs in gold hinges
‘til our roughness ruins the gate,
‘til that soft is solid brass.
and it’ll be surprise to them when
they get back an we’ve ripped
the whole place clean of everything.
won’t they wonder where we’ve stuck
the things they hid while they tried to outrun us?
they’ll get up to leave a room
and the doorway will be gone,
they’ll go to free a wife from a cupboard
and there won’t be a bone left of her.
they will have forgot all about giving me room.
it’s for the best since i won’t go explore again.
my feet have got so heavy
it’s like my boots are a whole country thick.
March 2, 2013
bottom feeders
through the bitter gold
of that sunbeam, the fingers,
so white they’re see through,
make a cross
and hit her head,
belly and shoulders, like a reflex.
that thumb has tried
to hide back in her mouth,
but that impulse,
dulled from training, is easier
to stop and she keeps reading.
and shifting in her seat.
and I forget my eyes are knives
to her jean-thin covering,
protecting the thinner still
white beneath and its fraying.
tan rough would crease up
that stab wound,
but the soothing hand
will do much more damage.
February 24, 2013
William Butler Yeats (2nd version)
somewhere in New York
they’re making poems magic again.
taking books about seasons in hell
and putting them to work.
soon there will be an army
of boys and girls with well worn copies,
or little black notebooks,
full of choice lines tucked
in jacket pockets
ready to be whispered
to the ears of desire.
and while using words
to get someone to bed
is no tragedy
it does lack ambition.
why waste magic fucking
when it can be fucking hostile?
in 100 years
I want kids using these poems
to cut each other in half.
February 2, 2013
you forgot to write about the fire
lace and those thin fingers
make you light commander
just like birth made your hips narrow.
neither keep you from a thing,
but that lapse is noticed.
lack of letters and
lack of land in the dust
where both still mean so much to people.
or do you really not remember
the mud in your bones?
not remember we don’t
have an ocean and
our buildings are made of bricks?
did you forget our mission?
the whole town thinks you did
‘cause someone found a picture
of the fire and found out street names.
these people all have hands to grope,
but your back must be so light
now without their greed digging into it.
February 2, 2013
Rees.
weeks could be a waste
waking up and trying
to make the dreamsounds
in real life.
thrown hammers
through their heads
or bones broken
through wood and glass
all to make the racket perfect,
but failing.
playing back the chop
and that knife hard on the table
is nothing like in your head.
so will you keep this up
during the day?
all the time making noise
or will you make sure
you never sleep again?
January 12, 2013
mexican poppies.
you’d be surprised
what gets kicked up here
in shrinking town.
now when all four hundred feet
move some sunday,
the narrowed streets
are almost a city.
all the bodies hide the fact
they walk on dirt past hand-made brick
and man-laid fence.
then our whole herd is off the street,
led to some sunday slaughter,
the town looks dead.
the houses brown in the sun
and dried out like stringy muscle
that hugs all our hides.
the blocks so quiet
they make make monday’s
loud as a wedding.
we are a shrinking town
and at the end of some old road
back from before there were borders.
before we drank sand
in hopes the poison in our stomachs
would give us pearls.
but everything we suck down
will only leak from prick holes
before our veins can even
take the food from it.
December 28, 2012
woman root
You followed us
from Prague but must’ve walked.
We would’ve noticed the bloat
on the plane if the drag
had been there so long.
Would’ve felt one side sag
and stay limp with beard weight,
however much weight
from your camera lens,
from the hair between your legs.
Did your glasses
fall in the Atlantic ocean?
There was time to keep
a hand tight as death grip
but no time to kick
the Slovak mud from your boots.
You must have forgot
we weren’t coming to New York
or did you?
We were coming to the bay,
which added hours
to the thigh-wear high above
that country you’d always heard of.
But you could not have snuck aboard.
You must’ve used your legs
to follow, clear crossing Russia
and swimming through all that warm
Pacific water past Japan
and through the volcano-deep
nothingness before reaching
the gold US gates.
Let me tell you something
now that you’re here:
there are just as many
of them to go around here…
they like to spill seed
as much as us.
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