Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Please recycle me/ I am biodegradable

Planet-friendly/ When my soul molts

just put me in the compost

with the chicken bones/ My skin will settle

down next to onion/ Stew in the mouth

of the slowest eater

The soil rifling through itself

that does not seek/Does not discern

between one hard thing or the other

Shale or tooth/ Folds over the lip

and worm/ Sizzles out a rose

of recycled placenta/ Evaporated

eye ball tears fill gutters/ glasses

I’ll be honored to be your drink

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

When you couldn't stop

When you couldn’t stop

hoola-hooping you hipped

till you turned

tornado. What a beautiful

roof. Was it good? When it finally

fell to your ankles

a house fell out with it—

gashed in the field, cows

splatting down must have

sent you over

the rainbow

to see if you’d melt

in the rain.

When you

got there,

you heard her

singing some

where but

could not



Something like life

A platform: smiling with my liver.

I want a brave haircut so you will

know I am, call me

Little Brave.

Most likely you do not know

I am dead serious

most of the time.

I shoot cannons and you go ha ha.

This is something like repetition,

something like life.

Yesterday was strange

to feel grown up. I held my shoulders

back—statue’d told no one

this is how it feels, does not feel.

Then Peter Pan came

asking to the window, how do you

like your air--dehydrated or fried?

We ate off a large white plate

till morning.

It was something like life.

Now it is today and my hands shake.

You will not know unless I tell you

I keep a picture of a lady in my freezer. Her eyes

beside the peas know all. I want to marry her,

but she is dead.

Tonight I will take off my shoes

and my blender will speak back.

Creatures have a way of recovering.

I will leave the plant where it fell out the window.

Some would call

I know I am too much

like you. That is why you cannot love me.

We go extinct from each other, this planet

of many planets, species

fade off-grid each day—

To watch the breakdown

of cells attack each other—

caffeinated hive—implosion shakes

the tree, then bursts it to light-ashes.

They’ll send a man in a hat, a pocket

that shines to tell you. Or they won’t.

His teeth will be wet when you learn what

you already knew:

stop looking for feathers.

Don’t you remember you dreamt they would

empty every sky, then fill them

with birds that look real.

Don’t you remember

some would call this beauty, claim

not to know the difference.