Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Audio Recording of I have resorted to dust

I have resorted to dust

I've counted 74 boxes inside our house I have a thing for
counting and for boxes all I know is this boredom is painful-- these yawning

days of dogs asleep, these empty boxes full of Want. Mahogany, pine, oak
I wait for them to collect dust so I may blow on them and sneeze to be taken away temporarily.

I saw a photograph of a star and it reminded me of your oldest self, how
I'd put you in one of those boxes if I could, to open when I am in need of awe.

These hands want to make and be lost in some thing, buried deep in warm wet tissue or scratching nails over bark. But it is so green outside my window-- so green I think

shiny thoughts, I think lavender toe nails and new sandals but the air has a chill. And boxes know nothing of today's green's deception: they only know monk-sit and they don't remember being alive.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt: they'd probably spin in circles if they could.
Imagine all their corners wearing away and the sky gone dizzy.

Imagine a day as green on the inside as it is on the outside: imagine warmth: imagine this body

leaving the loneliness it was earth-born into and all those boxes at last filled with old letters.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

I can barely take

I drive past calfs playing in the field every day: so, very-sorry-feel. Ache
the color of bruise swells in my throat, an aura of purple
behind my eyes, presses as though I should always wear black
& earlier I'm dangling my legs from a branch in an orchard on a planet I hum
a bright song that goes sour in my mouth: no candy to fix
this feeling I can not name & those cows get me
by heart every time I am so utterly more human than most-- ears tagged
yellow tags murder
yet still they lay calm on grasspatch beneath sky. It is the roundness
of their eyes letting in all the world. It is what cuts short
their promised-by-God days. A truck ride
and they scream bloody I have heard. If only it were different here, if only
we'd ask nothing of them & let them lay with the lonely girls when it's cold.  

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Burnt pudding

A horse in a womb somewhere
grows, suspended in pink light
and another, birthed, into a field
is spooked and gallops away
from a bag blowing across the earth

But I, I am pouring my sadness
into the pudding, stirring the creamy
white, stirring in my sadness
I want you to eat it I want
you to know what this
feels like

Last night's dreams I was driving a blue
convertible through I should have known
what was coming: today my sadness would burn
the pudding and we are having
to start from scratch again

This pudding for your birthday
will take all day-- that is what
sadness can do to time--
stretch it out in strands of ache
A woman can temporarily ruin, have to
start up all over again,
stir the second batch, pray over
milk wont burn this time, this time
she'll leave sadness
out of the pudding she will
brush her teeth and be able to speak
and the horse galloping will
come to a stop-- no longer afraid
of a bag, or of anything

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Dear Gatlinburg,

Your roads --the curves of women linked together, uncovered we discovered beautiful : hipped and bedrocked-- jurassic slabs of slate. Your cabin's music playing, and fire when we entered, entered where she said yes, I slipped old stones on her finger. Where bears still sleeping, where still illegal for us to marry, you should know you were apart of the story: story where two women become lovers again and again, in the woods, on a hill, in a state where this kind of love is dangerous, not unlike all love. Where we ate at the Old Mill, meat covered in stone ground corn and fried, we tasted you and left the morning before the snow and ice. We slept on the finest pillows,  swallowed from our tongues wine and juice and with dog as witness,  made a promise to each other. We drifted through dark chambers of blue, watched jellyfish through glass umbrella into red, and sharks glided over head. We drove through smoky mountains--their blue aura, their snowy tops and slippery rocks where the cold bit our necks for each photo-op. We were high, we were in clouds, in love and looking out at the curve of the world.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Audio Recording of Where Poetry Begins, I Begin Again

Where Poetry Begins, I Begin Again

Stagnant puddle in a Humidity thick with fly-sweat. Godweb
of sun and heat-- stuck in thismoment forever. Here Poetry begins
with Father Fist and Mother Bruised, cacti needles in skin, carebear
nets and facecake. I knew I was shuddering in some place holy,
some place tattooed into my soul's soul, some place scraping
my mother off pavement with little hands/little water. Heat-stroked
thighs, metal eyes and cat gone hiding beneath the sofa: breathing
ball of endangered fur here Poetry begins in the only cool blue thing: pool,
aurelian surface lapping and slurping into the side-drains. I am rescuing
all the dead bugs, holding them in my palm and blowing onto their wings in belief
I can resurrect. Here Poetry begins so thick I cant separate air from water, sun
from sky, hot from black. My world at his knee cap, my world with a crick
in my, my world whirling around me from where it all began, where there
must have been some frosting amidst swollen lips and eyes my mother wore
the fashion. Some nights dreaming between the two of them I'd awake, listen
to their lungs exhale and fog the room as far as I could see. Some nights I'd lift
myself into the heat-cloud above them and wait for the rain to pour out of me.
But it rarely came and when it did, it came in hard, slanting sheets. Till I became
nothing. It all begins here, here this place needled into the pink behind-my-eyes.
I go back there. I go back. I go back.