Trains, Animals and NY 2009-2010


Through my eyes on August 1st


Wednesday, November 19, 2014

A necessary shadow

The lace glued to the mason jar-- inside, a flickering
desire. Outside the blue stretches
over and above: skin on a drum-- slick and asking:

             how I once sent words through clouds to you, asked if I could
             write you letters. You never answered and in that silence--
             your answer like an arrow shot into the sky, hit some place
             I keep unseen--

the dog burrows beneath covers, licks the same spot
on my foot over and over-- the way I can never stop
thinking about you-- you, between my ears-- you
when my eyes open I have shaped you over and
over-- you: ghost-clay wedged into crevices of thought,
you bend, warm into wrinkles, into skin-wilting
as is promised by time, I kneed through you
over and over-- your eyes
the color of where that arrow shot, pierce through
the gap of years between us.


I have a lover now. She has seen my nakedness
and stayed. I no longer need your
fingers, your breasts, your undivided
everything but still, on mornings, you overlap
and I want to hate you for it, want to burn
you like a letter unanswered but you've done
nothing, you've done everything: you're a ghost/

you exist.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

An asking

I empathize with the world's saddest
bear, Arturo. I saw his sad eyes and they were the saddest

and I'm thinking about you, and he is the saddest, petrichored.

I'm drawing moons, drawing stars and cars, oh love--
you draw on the glitter-clit of my heart,

some days you sing you sing
all through my day: you dot my eyes,

but will you
pick my berries
at the cliff of the lake
where you'll come with me
and we'll jump:

This is the only way I know how to ask: how much do you love me, do you--
love me, how, how,

Saturday, December 21, 2013

The 8 year old holds a heart

After scrubbing elbows to nails, Mom gowned
and gloved me. Through swinging doors I saw
every body but his, cloaked in blue. On his back: eyes taped 
shut, penis halo'd in dark hair, the smell of sterility
and iodine, his ribs pried open and inside him-- a hollow
large enough for several birds. Just tall enough to see
and reach up, then over, then down into the hollow
with my right hand, his heart slick and pink as the inside
of a swollen cunt. Was his spirit hovering as this child
reached inside him, cupped his heart in her palm to the sound
of Led Zepplin on the radio? Did he wonder, who was this girl-
child hovering, reaching inside him as she was told to do. 

Thursday, December 19, 2013

yes, I love her

There is a pit inside of her:
deeper than she is

able to. Go. I followed her
half-way down, once. She barely

made it. Out. She can not bear
to hear some of the words. I write

and it would be easier to swallow
were she not in my throat, as I wrote,

but the psychic cord was never cut,
though attempted. Her hair was once

long and black reflecting. She
is still innocent and I can't

forget her hands. It is as if she
has died and come back

to life. It is as if I carry
her on my back everywhere.

I go. I could write her
forever. She is my

oldest lover.

From a crow's view

my childhood, blended, would be
the color worn by monks--  color
of ash,
color of wolf,
carved stone,
storm cloud,
color of hair,
dead brain,
aura   of the depressed  

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Fear 111: my face on a milk carton

A latch key kid I'd head straight for the blinking machine: red:
push play : I'm going to kidnap Sarah became not unusual.  
When my parents got home, my adopted dad would prepare
the gun, teachers were phoned with the secret word--
strawberry, for anyone picking me up from school.
(I can tell you that now.)

At night I'd lock the front door eleven times-- up 
and out of bed: that journey of heart pound 
down stairs again and again: terror plagued
those years, years after we'd left him, changed my name,
never sit with my back to a window.

Sometimes he'd call when we'd be home. 
Mom made me talk to him, though I didn't really 
want to, though he terrified me, though I hated him. 
He'd say, Tell your mom  I love her still. Tell her I love her.
Mom would listen as she stirred a hot pot, I'd wrap phone cord
tighter around my finger till the tip turned white.
Your father loves you, she'd say.

There is no data on how many children were saved by milk cartons,
but as a child the fear welled my face would one day
be on one. I hate/d milk; those faces haunted me. The rows
after rows of children stapled
on Walmart walls still get me.

Monday, December 16, 2013

how the girl became a messenger, Part 1

her hands shape the ground beef into a question-mark patty,
she feeds it to the girl who once grew inside her

girl eats patty, asks why do you
call yourself a whale?  mother feels trapped,

should have served girl a traditional
period-patty, tries to put her feelings

into a mental-meat-grinder till the girl's
question comes out in shreds


the girl begins to study whales in effort to understand her mother--
slippery so she tells no one her mother loves water and whale tongues

weigh as much as an elephant, their hearts as much as a car, so, the girl 
infers her mother feels overwhelmed, but is unable to speak 

the weight of it,
the girl runs baths for her mother, lights candles--

she'll feel most at-home here, she thinks, but she'll be lonely--
(blue whales travel in pairs,) so I'll bathe (blue)

with her   so she's not so alone

next, often, they are two whales in a tub  
girl feels questions in her belly, gathers her body

beneath the faucet, imagines a waterfall-ing
into her open palms  this goes on for years

she wrinkles nightly into thumb tips,
remembers the story of Jonah-- 

swallowed by a whale never named,
inside whom he lived for three days

in acidic darkness, before purged
on shore--forgotten, his skin, hair bleached

white from acid  and the smell
had he doubted before

he was a messenger of God,
he never doubted again