Sunday, April 28, 2013

I Feel Like Shit

He blew a ring of smoke
and asked, You ever curse? And just because
I lacked the soul or spine or clarity
of mind that night to say
the many ways I hate the loose-lipped bitterness,
the slimy charm and happy hatred of it all,
and not the words
themselves, I told him, No.

He puffed a bit and turned to say to me,
You’re good. And then, because
I couldn’t say the fact I am
a fly, a dirty incarnation of a fleeting breath,
caught in a million sticky threads of what good is,
what good might be,
and terrified
of some inevitable mouth, some tooth,
some poison crowned by a dozen shining eyes,
I replied, Thanks.

But you’re quiet, he added, shaking his ashes
into wind. To which I said nothing.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

I Remember Your Name in the Night

When the fantasy and humdrum of a frantic
day chock-full of seconds disappear and all that's left 
is you, is me,
our faces turned to one another,
two names touching in a single space of breath, 
tell me, what else could I have room to do

in the flood of the wealth of your withness,
the riches of your being at my fingertips
suffocating sight?

I remember your name in the night. The colored paint
of circumstance peels back
at the touch of this immortal hand and you are there,
white stone,  
rider on a white, white horse.

I Hum

I hum, waiting,
a girl in the body of a girl, singing
songs in the shapes of bigger beauty,
hoping for love with a handful of letters.
This little brick building I have been
born in with its lopsided corners
its weathered windows and gaping rooms is

a tent—not a house,
but a picture of a house,
just as this body is the seed of a body
and all knowledge of my world a slender
silver shadow of the truth. I sing
as echoes ring me round.

Two Flies in a Coke Bottle

 They looked so damn happy, rubbing their palms
against one another and against their wings
as they dipped their feet luxuriously
in sugary dew, yes, they were delighted
and fat and felt no need to flinch or flutter
when I recapped the thing and left it in the sun.


Everyone I know is bent on self-destruction, and the wind
won’t help keep the scent of it out of my hair.
What can I do but shower

often, try my hardest not to cough
or choke? I guess sometimes that is all love is.
I just wish the wind was less thoughtless.


I realized I was selfish so I gave my heart away
then realized I’d been stupid and I tried to take it back
then found out I was greedy and I gave it up again
but the one who should have had it never touched the flying thing.

So I got lonely, carved a parrot
from a single block of oak.
And it looked real (I’ve got to say, I’m good
with wood) but when I pulled its tail
it didn’t say a thing.

I threw it to a campfire and went out into winter
empty-handed and bare-shouldered and burning
up with desperation. I think I left some footprints in the snow.