all that’s left in my fruit box,
reds, orange, purple from watermelon
radish, roasted carrots, grapes, cherry
the brown bottom of the box.
into the butt.
what? this is poetry.
don’t roll your eyes at me.
I’m a god damn luminary.
the necropolis doesn’t have
nearly enough bones laying around.
take out your skinning knife, honey.
let’s see what we can do about this
my brain feels broken.
I find myself moved to tears too
& others. most days.
too many things were coming to me;
I had to put down the poetry
& write some.
some dusty springfield playing off a dusty
disc of vinyl; dusty in memphis. a classic.
you’ve got some rings on your ears.
move some hair away, you scoot in,
my hand moves through…
do you like the way they pick up
sound? I like the way yours taste,
when we’re embraced in each other’s
embrace, and my mouth is at your
neck and it goes up, at a lobe: metal,
skin, and your taste, your ear, just
slightly salty because, yes, didn’t you,
yes you biked here, dear?
Two young men
chat the domestic. They can’t
be older than me, by much.
Maybe they’re younger.
A dishwasher installed in a home
kitchen is the savior of one’s relationship. They both chuckle.
Gently talking shop (which is life, obviously) they seem so content.
One is doing yoga with his girlfriend, who is very serious; they talk
finances now, savings, insurance, rent — something I can’t make out.
I wish the world would swallow us all.
happy easter, honey.
I hope your sister doesn’t get abused
by her husband, your brother-in-law.
hopefully you find some eggs today with
candy, and I hope your new boyfriend
likes going down on you, and you figure
out how to cum. later, I hope that when you get
pregnant it’s because you wanted to,
and not that your husband just really needed
a boy, (“and anyway, he travels so much!”)
and I hope labor is easy and there are
no complications. I hope your kids are great
and I hope that I never meet them.
ugh, girl of some dreams
mirita. dressed up,
what a still night, what a weird still night
lightening right above you, that doesn’t happen
why can’t I see you more?
the storm was all around us, but there was not wind.
the trees did not move. the light up above moved
that was all.
I think a tornado is coming.
writing stuff on a post-it
waiting for the bathroom
a line of one:
you’re probably wondering
how I got here…
haha, that was a good joke
–hope I don’t piss my pants–
sometimes things go in reverse.
sometimes the end was the beginning.
this is one of those times.
over ten dead skunks on the side of the road
and an opossum, bleeding out in the middle
of a neighborhood street. this seems an inordinate
amount of animal death for a month and a half
worth of time. maybe I’m just becoming better
at spotting a wild carcass.
we had an opossum at the nature center; she was
a popular animal among Asian tourists I was told.
the one in the street was caught by my headlights
leaning on shaky, busted limbs. gore was pouring
out its broken mouth. I wanted to pull over and
to end the suffering. so it could not just play dead,
you know me. I couldn’t do anything but drive on.
and I wondered what would have happened had I hit
the creature with my car, swerved to knock it closer
towards the black. would that have been kindness?
I think the skunks are an omen, and the dying
marsupial is a bloody message trying to drive
home some point. I can’t speak nature to save my life.
I can glean as much meaning from a bird song as
a mustelid corpse. maybe I counted wrong. maybe
there were thirteen dead skunks.
that would have to mean something. but maybe
I’m just becoming better at spotting a wild carcass.
‘I like your hair,’ gently twirling it and
with a slight tug, you sorta whispered
in some early daylight phase. Our fingers
were linked, index only, and my brain did
that thing where it forgets where my body
ends and yours begins.
I lost it there, because the last time morning
noises poured into a city apartment window
life felt so great. It was neat, but not gaudy
like my grandpa used to say. You used to say
‘I like you,’ and ‘make some time for me,’
and ‘I’m glad I got to see you.’
Tricky, tricky. It’s easy to convince oneself
something can work when you’re the one
being chased. Maybe the story of wild sex
on New Year’s Eve in a post-modern lake house
basement bedroom was too much too soon.
It’s not fair. I had so many other good things
to share, but like, what’s the point? You really
to give a shit.