As the city walked away
its kissing dust shook from my cuffs
I made it into the wild
of where I've been before
Its kind of violence
welcomed me with
kisses of bruises
bites and shed skin
I could feel its hot shout
from states away.
April 23, 2010
Prints
The city has
its windows open
inside lit
I ride along side them
almost into them
behind my own open window.
We, the little color prints
in our frames
wonder at the sight
the wonder of one another
of our eyes open
almost close enough
to see into them.
Apr 20, 2010
its windows open
inside lit
I ride along side them
almost into them
behind my own open window.
We, the little color prints
in our frames
wonder at the sight
the wonder of one another
of our eyes open
almost close enough
to see into them.
Apr 20, 2010
Walks
we take the keys
and leave the door open
we wind our way through the wind
we share our dreams
and plant their meanings
we don't cool
over dropped ashes
we burn up awake
and stay awake when we sleep
the things we notice
we keep behind our ears
our mouths fill up
with words we don't want to forget
we slow smoke - no
we can't stay in the sidewalks
we dig the alleys
the behind, the underneaths
we obsessed with breathing
we litter the sidewalk cracks
with our winter memory
can they see our smile
under the city stars trying
in and out
we impatient for
our feet to callous to this city
so we can walk it over
for summer
we go out in jeans
come back in skirts
the forgetful rabbits
cover our tracks
with only our fingertips to light the way
we pick up where we left off
bitter and delicious
until it makes sense.
april 16, 2010
and leave the door open
we wind our way through the wind
we share our dreams
and plant their meanings
we don't cool
over dropped ashes
we burn up awake
and stay awake when we sleep
the things we notice
we keep behind our ears
our mouths fill up
with words we don't want to forget
we slow smoke - no
we can't stay in the sidewalks
we dig the alleys
the behind, the underneaths
we obsessed with breathing
we litter the sidewalk cracks
with our winter memory
can they see our smile
under the city stars trying
in and out
we impatient for
our feet to callous to this city
so we can walk it over
for summer
we go out in jeans
come back in skirts
the forgetful rabbits
cover our tracks
with only our fingertips to light the way
we pick up where we left off
bitter and delicious
until it makes sense.
april 16, 2010
Or Honesty
The things I'll give to you when you die
The walls of blankets I hung in my room
where I hid and hid
and named the colors
filtered by the hours.
The light through thin-veined leaves
that only veils
alone children.
The fear of wasps in the playhouse
you built tall
like the real trees.
And I ended up preferring them after it was painted.
I'll give you that tree house
the way it looked when I could just see it from inside the woods
maybe it's less painted now
Maybe the trees are
much much taller.
April 15, 2010
The walls of blankets I hung in my room
where I hid and hid
and named the colors
filtered by the hours.
The light through thin-veined leaves
that only veils
alone children.
The fear of wasps in the playhouse
you built tall
like the real trees.
And I ended up preferring them after it was painted.
I'll give you that tree house
the way it looked when I could just see it from inside the woods
maybe it's less painted now
Maybe the trees are
much much taller.
April 15, 2010
She Stays
No shame or remembrance
of the dead
I click with winter bone hands
but hers were
not this hard
ever deep and making room for
the things in them
why did we leave her
with only tissue to hold
She never feels Away
but I cannot get back
we left her somewhere
and my breaking hands shrink
with shame
or remembrance
of where I left the dead.
April 15, 2010
of the dead
I click with winter bone hands
but hers were
not this hard
ever deep and making room for
the things in them
why did we leave her
with only tissue to hold
She never feels Away
but I cannot get back
we left her somewhere
and my breaking hands shrink
with shame
or remembrance
of where I left the dead.
April 15, 2010
Ascension Hem
The atlas kicks at my hems
and I'm not sure I'm ascending
or just pulling the trees
up to my chin
Bees hemhaw the petal skin
is it the same as
my wilting, your dry pen
growing thick with
something skyward?
April 15, 2010
and I'm not sure I'm ascending
or just pulling the trees
up to my chin
Bees hemhaw the petal skin
is it the same as
my wilting, your dry pen
growing thick with
something skyward?
April 15, 2010
The Vague Season
The chlorophyll fizz
hit the brain
an opposite avalanche
grew vague
the light stood aside
making room
slurried lines
and just like that
one afternoon
hand in our hair
yawn in our hand
just like that we forgot
the stone our best hearts
are chipped from.
April 12, 2010
hit the brain
an opposite avalanche
grew vague
the light stood aside
making room
slurried lines
and just like that
one afternoon
hand in our hair
yawn in our hand
just like that we forgot
the stone our best hearts
are chipped from.
April 12, 2010
The Laughing Heroes
She asked what hurts
nothing.
Not this question,
it always makes me too quiet
My ears and mouth deciding
I need time alone
but I just want to hear
those kids laughing
wading up the concrete tide
with nothing hurt.
April 11, 2010
nothing.
Not this question,
it always makes me too quiet
My ears and mouth deciding
I need time alone
but I just want to hear
those kids laughing
wading up the concrete tide
with nothing hurt.
April 11, 2010
The Other Colours Bird
The black bird
that's not black
but blue and gold
and maybe a thousand other colors
creaks like its whole body
is just a hinge
makes you think
someone's coming through the door
even if you're not around any
The black bird makes you think
I wonder
what other colors?
Apr 10, 2010
that's not black
but blue and gold
and maybe a thousand other colors
creaks like its whole body
is just a hinge
makes you think
someone's coming through the door
even if you're not around any
The black bird makes you think
I wonder
what other colors?
Apr 10, 2010
Notebook
The spine broken
held together on
the merit of its sentences
but they are slapping
at my hands
open mail slots
on wet hinges.
Apr 8, 2010
held together on
the merit of its sentences
but they are slapping
at my hands
open mail slots
on wet hinges.
Apr 8, 2010
The Always Boy
Who are you, boy?
You'll always be boy to me
You ain't nothing
You're your momma's
You're your poppa's
but that's two things
because they ain't each other's
anymore.
Who are you, boy
anymore?
Are you your hands
their angles, their weight and color
Which side?
The open side
or the tops
that's two different things.
Or are you your eyes
folding over those hands
the almost pupil-shade irises
their almost somewhere else tilt
difficult to find the way in
difficult to find the way out.
Are you the warm teeth in my imagination
or the cold snow we last stood on?
Apr 8, 2010
You'll always be boy to me
You ain't nothing
You're your momma's
You're your poppa's
but that's two things
because they ain't each other's
anymore.
Who are you, boy
anymore?
Are you your hands
their angles, their weight and color
Which side?
The open side
or the tops
that's two different things.
Or are you your eyes
folding over those hands
the almost pupil-shade irises
their almost somewhere else tilt
difficult to find the way in
difficult to find the way out.
Are you the warm teeth in my imagination
or the cold snow we last stood on?
Apr 8, 2010
End Season Chores
There are chores before the cold season ends.
Finish the box of cigarettes
shake the cold out of my hair
fire proof the wilting notebook
wear the felt boots once more
sit on a bus cozy with strangers
find the boxes of warm blood
in the closet
unknot my fists
write the eulogy
memorize the crocheted skeletons
send the ghosts home safely
go to bed without them.
Apr 8, 2010
Finish the box of cigarettes
shake the cold out of my hair
fire proof the wilting notebook
wear the felt boots once more
sit on a bus cozy with strangers
find the boxes of warm blood
in the closet
unknot my fists
write the eulogy
memorize the crocheted skeletons
send the ghosts home safely
go to bed without them.
Apr 8, 2010
Needle Eyes
The sun finds a way
of tripping me up
and pulling me through needle eyes
and black birds
into its garment of
trailing ends.
ap 6, 2010
of tripping me up
and pulling me through needle eyes
and black birds
into its garment of
trailing ends.
ap 6, 2010
Useless
When I'm not here
the date fades useless
the spine of books loosen
pages in my hand
to mouth
The silhouettes lace with their silos
and ignore the difference
of languages.
the date fades useless
the spine of books loosen
pages in my hand
to mouth
The silhouettes lace with their silos
and ignore the difference
of languages.
Beggars Waiting
The occasional death
at the end of a day
heralded by
airplane roars
and skin white apparitions
say
sounds that only slip
around the folded
hem of my
piercable ears
then give up.
A moment of nothing,
or close to it,
before the crippled everything
returns to beg.
ap 6, 2010
at the end of a day
heralded by
airplane roars
and skin white apparitions
say
sounds that only slip
around the folded
hem of my
piercable ears
then give up.
A moment of nothing,
or close to it,
before the crippled everything
returns to beg.
ap 6, 2010
Temperature at the End
The end of a season
burns my fingers
warming them close to ashes.
Are the days more than
cardboard and rain.
I reach for the next
and fall headlong
into its drizzle.
ap 6, 2010
burns my fingers
warming them close to ashes.
Are the days more than
cardboard and rain.
I reach for the next
and fall headlong
into its drizzle.
ap 6, 2010
The Other Hemisphere
One cloud slides over the sky
as my hand slides over you
crossing without comprehension
touching but not being
and soon that cloud is exhausted
into the other hemisphere
and I pass by you
crossing over
into another hemisphere
entirely uninhabited by you.
ap 6, 2010
as my hand slides over you
crossing without comprehension
touching but not being
and soon that cloud is exhausted
into the other hemisphere
and I pass by you
crossing over
into another hemisphere
entirely uninhabited by you.
ap 6, 2010
Professional Mourner
One match left
the ease of breathing
lets go
the ease of being
other than the wind
puckers and inhales
the grave of winter buckles
I am one professional mourner
of the buried season
deep in its grave
unrecognized. risen.
I am one professional inhaler
of empty air
heavy with nothing
prickling my legs
as I swing.
Ap 6, 2010
the ease of breathing
lets go
the ease of being
other than the wind
puckers and inhales
the grave of winter buckles
I am one professional mourner
of the buried season
deep in its grave
unrecognized. risen.
I am one professional inhaler
of empty air
heavy with nothing
prickling my legs
as I swing.
Ap 6, 2010
Meringue
Meringue skirt about knees
meringue hair please
don't stop whipping
winning me over
to Spring.
Apr. 2, 2010
meringue hair please
don't stop whipping
winning me over
to Spring.
Apr. 2, 2010
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