It’s only rain. If it cracks through your shriveled cancer-skin, so be it. If it pounds dents into your once deep and pondering skull, no one will notice the difference. It’s only rain. It’s tiny hurdling molecules of planetary runoff that hides your tear tracks and feeds the earth so that our food can flourish and you can continue, in the morning, to shovel it in as fast as...
is it the black holes you fear? this deep unknown of long-since exploded suns and short gasps of oxygen kissing your cheeks? enough air, enough nothingness for a lifetime of hanging here on swirling gusts of wind with you, sounds alright to me.
the cult lost sight of me as their leader, lover, medicine-milk giver. i lit a flame to draw them back from the edge of the world. i could feel in my bones that they were nearing the road. their skin would bloom grey and blue with frosty flake-petals of cold, soon. and only i their mother, could thaw their blood and make them warm again.
If You Don't Know What You Want.
I cracked open his chest without metaphor. I sliced the skin and took a hammer to the bars of his ribs until they shattered. I dug through heavy organs and ropes of intestines until I held in my hands a rusted key. I didn’t have the means to sew him back up so his blood fell over his sides like warm waterfalls, jumping with clots like little fish. Into his left ear I jammed the key, twisted,...
But As For Today.
Some days the sea is under my naked body as green sheets. The rippling foam is only our friction. The waves are just the way our breathing comes. Some days the sands under our bare feet is the gritty carpet. And if we write our names they’ll only be swept to nothingness as the mud of our souls washes over them. Some days the skies over our tired, weary heads is only the whiteness...
The Fisherman. The Astronaut. Before I sleep, I imagine you. You’re knee deep in a cold stream. There are stars everywhere. Up in the trees and peeking out from behind shining river rocks. Places they shouldn’t be. Places stars wouldn’t go. But they’re there. Because you’re there. And there’s a fire lit a little ways back, up on the shore. Tented wood...
what i gave to her back in ‘07. a thrift store cigar box: ‘pretty peggy, tobacco filled’ and gas station roses of thin painted wood and wire are stuffed inside the glove compartment of your flat black monte carlo, ‘86 and dented you seemed so innocent when you left and her hair, flying up in gold streams from the t-tops was far too breathtaking a sight for me so i hope...
little girl thinks she spoke too soon. toward the naked bed falls my empty body of bones and maggot meat and my tongue stays strung up by puppet strings dangling from a ceiling fan blade of silly words and misconstrued meaning a gentle breath rocks it in circles dripping, drooling apologies for having been so brash. beneath the mattress is a box of scarves moth-eaten and powdered with the dust...
Letters to Sweden
Installment Three. Dear Sweden, It’s a Thursday night. I’m parked outside the Stop -N- Shop taking note of strangers on my phone’s notepad. They’re buying frozen peas and live lobsters, canned yams and sugar by the pound. Strawberries that will rot in the back of their fridge, chocolate bars for their little ones. Packaged toothpaste and floss picks for good...
retaining. as the brick buildings, at night hang onto tiny crystals of sun and radiate its warmth inward on its sleeping residents, so do i cling to the burning salt of your skin, and kick the sheets from the end of the bed, wrapped only in the retained heat of your memory.
chaos touches down like the fog upon the lake and i’ve been here before the whitening knuckles and the skin above my pulse points, twitching, jumping pumping something a little lighter now a little softer so light, so soft that if flows more quickly and as hard as i try holding my breath, making my whole body rigid as a corpse it flows still smoothly it rolls calmly toward my heart where it...
who was she to think she was able to write poetry or prose? who was she to think she was worthy of his bloody fists or her mother’s love? should she start again, she would know better than to attempt to crawl anywhere other than right back inside the skin of her maker. who did she think she was to try and live in this world where the beautiful people thrive?
A Piece of Prose. What do you want from me here? My palms are greased with pollen and sweat. My fingers are guilt-ridden from having touched the tips of Mimosa plants. From watching them fold in on themselves. There’s gravel under my eyelids. Someone else’s iron deficiency on my tongue. Scraping my taste buds off just to keep myself awake. Do you want me to write? Do you want...
No one bows to the happy poet or swells along with the chorus of a love song. So we shall stay drunk and gaze into the sky, asking questions about heaven even when upon the sober morning we’ll find it at our feet.
in love there is only raw human flesh and ugliness if you’re doing it correctly.
Every Hour. While the door sighs to a close behind you, watch the last sliver of Medicine-Sun shrink and evaporate on the concrete floor. Let the chill of the air conditioned room settle you into a freckled goose-bump coat. Watch your skin turn pollen-yellow under the buzzing florescents. Lock the door. Click your heels across the concrete floors until the sound is muffled by the grey...
confined. quietly i watch dead skin collect into the sticky-damp bottom of a coke bottle and float there soft as dandelion seeds. i realize i’ve got my mother’s weak arms and ugly toes, her rough tongue built for sugar and dense syrup that crystallizes and chips away at my tea-teeth. could i not easily sink into the earth and sleep long enough to rid my eyes of their dark tree-trunk...
I met Satan downtown at a little coffee shop. I wore pearls tight around my throat and from his, a silk tie hung loosely. We sipped from chipped mugs and watched one another from across the round table. He drew patterns with his fingertips in the coffee rings. He spelled my name in spilled sugar, smiled. In some ways, that was all it took. His pointed teeth dripped menthol-venom and my mouth was...
Give Me Your Pain, I'll Carry It For You
The thin lines of your inner workings, your massive blood-clot subway system, pound harder when you sleep. Veins and nerve endings, like the mechanical room basement, steam and reach out to the light seeping in through your skin. They’re taking in the oxygen from the room when I catch them between my teeth. Shut them down. Little valves and faucets with their guppy gills flapping out in...
You’re here now so I’ll drink the coffee as black as it comes and keep bruised knees that never have the chance to fade to yellow. There will be good days, and there will be rain-days when all we can do is open our palms to the sky and offer our skin as a resting place. I said a prayer on New Years Eve to a little plastic Jesus who was frosted over on the dirt lawn of a dirt-church and...
3 ways to say i love you. leave me a trinity of scratches down my spine.
Monsters under the earth. Blue monsters. Blue. Or grey. But not the blue or the grey of the sea. Not the blue, grey of the horizon. More matted and icy. More dipped into the color of sadness and fear. Clay and paint chips. Claw of silver. Polished silver with carved paisley accents, sharpened to a point and turning up dirt with every step. Hard like silver. Shining like silver and...
The stretch of your back is a wide sea of muscle under the bridge of your shoulders. I want to dance my fingers across the expanse of your skin and pirouette over the hardened knobs of your spine. And I do. While you sleep. And I hope there isn’t too much of me for you to want to do the same over my pale-freckled slumber.
with our splinters like weapons together we’ll die if you sharpen your bones, then i’ll sharpen mine