Tired Foxes

the poet and the punk

sat under a dogwood tree

and petals fell all around them

the poet said “there’s music in these flowers”

and the punk strung the petals together

on a thread of black string

and he hung them around the poets neck

the punk said “and there is music in you”

i know a girl who drove last night
40 miles out of town with no change in her pockets
and down to her last bent smoke in the pack
she saw a dead fox near the edge of the road
she dreamed of childrens book illustrations against the deep sapphire backdrop-sky
dancing gypsies taken captive by constellation warriors with dread-locked beards
her eyes turned purple in the mixing gold moon light and pale pink-yellow lamplight
she stopped to watch the stars burn up and swirl into rain bullets
she remembered the house she’d burnt to the ground
remembered the cat eyes in the attic window
her gas tank was empty and her journey ended there with the fox and the woods
she curled up in the drivers seat and missed the smell of old books and thunderstorms
she slept until she was found in the morning by the waitress of a diner nearby
she drank coffee and brushed her teeth with a borrowed brush
she stole 20 dollars, filled her tank and drove the 40 miles back into town
i found her crying over broken glass beer bottles and she told me of the fox and the gypsies
told me of the house and the fire and attic window cat eyes, green neon glowing
i kept quiet, i listened, i asked about the woodland fox again
i saw the bruises on her cheeks, on her arms, the flaking blood under her chipped fingernails
her bottom lip was swollen and we got drunk on the last of the beer from my fridge
and the night she drove 40 miles out of town and the morning she drove 40 miles back
was just one of the things we never spoke about again

i burnt my tongue

on words as scalding hot

as unsweetened black coffee

and kissed you deep

a little bit of dust in a room corner - specks of skin,

cat fur,

eyelashes and maybe baby teeth that had once hung from a necklace,

threads of silk from dresses worn once,

crumbs from crackers eaten with spinach dip.

under the bed there’s glitter from eyeshadows,

flecks of bright yellow nail polish,

tufts of yarn,

ashes from a cigarette,

wood shavings and pencil shavings and ladybic leg hair shavings.

there’s crystallized sweat on book shelf tops,

sand carried back from the beach between toes,

sugar from candy,

powder from compact mirrors - broken mirror shards too.

everywhere there is incense dust,

dust-dust,

seat salt, table salt and dried pen ink,

burnt poetry pages,

flower petals,

pottery clay dust.

i spend my time writing lullabies

for babies who haven’t been born

and my insides swell up

with blood and salt

i bloat with emptiness

count the spots

on the backs of my eyelids

read lines in books like

‘happily ever after’

and fall asleep on the lawn

where the stars fighting the blackness above

provide enough gravity

to keep me

down

i used to write poems

in my head

while he was fucking me

turning our lust into something

so necessary

and it was, wasn’t it?

so goddamn necessary

air for windpipes

hard hot wet

slick with spit

my palms,

him,

over & over &

over

‘you know how daddy likes it’

and i do

he likes it on weekdays

in the front seat

of his brand new car

and he says ‘can’t get enough’

but saturdays are for rubbing

up against skinnier girls

in bars &

i’m dancing and rubbing

at myself hearing

‘do it for me’

in the late-night tequila phone calls

and he’s crying

he misses my slick palms and my fingers

and he says

‘you know i love you’

and i call out his name

and he’s so, so

(so-so)

proud but

he won’t sleep next to me

my head and the awful buzzing sound it makes

the dead bird on the stoop

black beans on the stovetop, gone cold three hours ago

they’ll sit for three more

the poem i didn’t write

the bill i can’t pay

the chocolate tart i had for dinner

my empty bed

my cracked up car

if i don’t space out my alcohol, it will kill me

we’re out of pain pills, smoke a cigarette instead

they say i’m naturally rhythmatic

that i’ve got a drum beat

under my tongue

long fingers

jeweled with poems and

heart-beat pulse-points

like my blood heats

with the friction of

carefully strung words

and that my tears fall

translucent onto pages

and then bleed out like

ink

but the lines

are not clotting up in my bloodstream

and the words are not crystals

i carry with me

through each kiss

or tortured heart-break

they are merely figments

of my mind

and of yours too,

the lies we tell ourselves

spilled out on stark white

and they are uglier to our own ears

than the voice of an ex-lover

any attempt to adorn my lies

in flowers or honey or pigments

only found under the sea,

are only attempts

at making my poem-jeweled fingers

ache a little less

with every keystroke

it’s the way

my heart stopped working

today when i saw you

and my hands shook

like a violent storm,

electric shocks in my fingertips

and my eyes blurred

like i remember they did before

when we drank whiskey together

from tiny bottles

in cheap motel rooms

that let’s me see,

though not clearly

that the chemical reaction of my body

when you’re around

isn’t something that the disappearance of love

can dissolve

intoxicate or

hibernate

i choose to isolate

rather than live

simply

hallucinate

the life i’ve read about

in poems

Martini sipping,
curly-haired,
jazzy-hipped ladies.
Lace and pearls and sharp tongues,
classical music and
gloves on your hands. 
You’re all journalism
and rich husbands. 
You’re all feathered headbands
and high heeled shoes.
Sweet skin, red lips and olive juice breath
at a smoky bar after midnight
a crooner in wing-tipped shoes
makes eyes from the stage. 
Little notes hidden in your cigarette box
about how one day you won’t hide behind your lipstick
anymore.

she only               dreams

when she’s             sober

and she’s only        sober

in her                   dreams

every morning i walk

into a concrete cave

of grey and green

sea glass

it cuts my legs

and face

with tiny spiderweb abrasions

that their salty tongues

lash at

for 8 straight hours

everyone is doing fine, in case you were wondering.  we’re all sitting in a circle watching lightening bugs dance and some moths are getting pretty close to the flames from the fire but they’re not burning up.  we have a bottle of whiskey between us and B poured some onto the fire and we bowed our heads and in our own ways, we prayed for you.  there’s a man with a beard and i’m not sure anyone here knows who he is but he’s playing something on a guitar and everyone is getting really quiet.  most of us are crying but we’re doing fine, in case that’s what you’re wondering.  go fly now - play in the stars.  we’re all going to be just fine.

i want to bundle up all of my poems

and ship them to your door

with a little note attached:

        none of these were ever about you

            xoxo love

i hope she’s there to see you

through

my poems are only as

      full

as my heart

and tonight my heart is as

       thin

as my pockets

and the clots in my veins are as

       soft

as lint