Tuesday, December 4, 2012

she is spoken in the field

inside the shape 
horse apples make 

she lies where she   

                  then released each 
into a shape she wanted

(to make the field speak) 
and the citrus   sweet
is the air the apples make 

on her back   citrus   stars every
where she doesn't feel cold   doesn't feel the sock stick
to her toes    but  the stars 
on her skin do burn
horse apples   green
as walls 
and the shape of her body inside the apples
from above:  

for the birds--

for whom she is lying inside the field's speaking   
wordlike she offers everything
and the birds offer everything
back   and stars
everyone everything is offering itself
the same 

in the morning
the white horse will matter
in the field beside the field 
with its

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

driving from there to there there were

driving from there to there there were

shadows on the castle,  my splinterless foot-- holed
pressed on the pedal   light dripped 
down the dreamcatch feather 
hanging, the rectangle mirror watching 
my back-- no!-- gaping: fool, trickster 
(the objects closer than they appear    the objects 
in the blind spots):   
                            but how low, how beautiful still the light 
dripped down the feather's blue   its blue fading
as blue will 
fade from creatures put in drawers
full of paper   spare screws   time 

                                                   before the feather   I was pulling apart 
                                                   a piece of cotton    warming oil, filling
                                                    a woman's ear full 
                                                   with sweet then filling
                                                   her ear with cotton like burial   
                                                   who's there she asked my moving lips  

                                                                                                      tell her 
tell her

I am singing who I am
                                               singing high to reach the jar on the high shelf 
                                               inside a Morphos flitting blue against glass    

and then I am calling
where are you    the woman
her ear full of cotton 
needles in    answers here
her silver goes digging 
in skin in time
my throat curls 
on itself--
like sign language 
fingers who make
the letter e

someone should tell the story--

                              the story which came before 
tweezing the sliver   the story before 
Morphos heaves in the jar

the story for which 
the splinter is the relic to hold 
at times  the story   which can not be forgotten

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Octopuses are no more a metaphor

For half a second I had 8 arms for
half a second I was moving
all the plates on the table, setting
forks, arranging
salad spoons glasses all at once

In Greece the octopuses hang
on fences to dry   already
not too much
not too little
but a Goldilocks amount
of beaten so they
are not too tough
not too tender
but just the right amount
of beaten
and they are no more
a metaphor than anything else
I have seen today

Thursday, October 18, 2012

what i have in common with her blood

When thorns stuck to the stockings
my leg became something else-- a cartoon
cactus, friendly
with its polka dots and purple
like a cactus who says
I won't hurt you   that's when I opened
the bag, found the star-- corners torn, left
as a reminder to the star
(who no longer looked like a star
but a creature   nameless at the bottom of the sea)

I plucked out each thorn at the gate whose lock   unlatched hung
open as an earring and saw her then-- the woman
who was not me, who would not let another pass and I sighed
at the sight of her and a rising was then taking place   wet lipped and breath
the rising taking its warm place   and warmth
rose to the tips of risen things and doors parted : the woman who was not me
stayed there, fingering blood on her arm-- the blood
bright as though it wanted to stay inside her and live

the blood is from the gate, from the teeth she said   I asked whose teeth
and then I was pounding (she did not know which teeth)
I was pounding my fist into my palm
because of what had happened to the star
when the woman said it's okay   she grabbed my fist
and said   I can still tell it's a star

Sunday, August 5, 2012

she is making a lovely nothing,

loses the stickers in the rain       she is  
her animal-self   the rain-coming--bone-swell just
before the Unsticking she is
a predictor though it aches    she stickers 
her knees and heads into it not-bird-like  
and close-eyed when it comes,   blind-like and so open 
is rain-and-she   of course she tilts her face   up    
her face is a satellite and the Pacific 
passes through her at any time

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

what is discernible

what is discernible

in this black that is whole    whole but for 
the light droplet with whom I have a starlike relationship   i breathe 
to its starlikeness and it breathes back and 
in our breathings we do not negate each other--   

starlikeness knows me as a contracting
form similar to a heart beat 
inside a birdcloud   it senses 
my footedness and we agree
it is a nearly unbroken
black and to be starlike and know 
       so much is improbable

Thursday, May 31, 2012

The saddest thing

is a widower with sunblock

and a roof-top pool   unable
to reach that place 

where his wings would be
had his parents been crows  

but had his parents and he
all been crows and feathered

he wouldn't need the sunblock
fingers   the arms to reach there    

but if by some instinct he as a crow 
found himself beside the same 

pool with its smoky city views
and a roof-top widower 

was there   he as a crow would think 
nothing  of him   nothing but how 

the light burns off his glasses 

They who leave a penny on the bottom

do so not because they made a wish
the day the pool opened for chlorinated
business   but for some kind 
of foot fetish  or fetish with places people
hold their breaths temporarily

I'm sorry but that's a place
we all go alone regardless
of what shiny object or lack
left to gleam and be reached for    I don't know 
but some people are so twisted   so pissed in 
that any kind of psychological chlorine 
couldn't begin to cleanse their dead-bug 
slurping soul

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

To/For the Screaming Child

It would have to be blue but I (also)

want a ball not because it aches but because

my lips primarily biolumenesce blue

my most native tongue not-involves

the throat is silent and colored

even when hunched over the desk

my lips pretending to belong to

a very respected detective I wasn't

thinking about them even a little

but they were glowing blue

without me I realize I am always detecting

It is how I make it but it's so much

I say to the cows please turn off

my brain and I imagine a key hole

in my temple but never the key

but the cows aren't like me i am comfortable

when they don't blink hardly

ever and they do not know what

I taste like

Screaming child, I am sorry

in my train I forgot you and

the ball that you are screaming for

What can I say that sounds grownup and

wise don't stop screaming? never stop

desiring so loudly they press their

face into hot bricksides to hear

your safe commotion

and as for the round objects

to throw and catch-- do not believe them:

the air is changed despite what they

will say again I know you are probably

not interested anymore I know you want

that ball so badly and that is probably best

Friday, April 6, 2012

For Adrienne

The dog smelling sour in her hair: the only creature who presses against me
this hour I learned you no longer breathe. In my mother's house my mother's
words in response: cruel: echo.

I wanted a dog as a child. Instead l listened to Kurk Cobain and the bird bit
my finger from his cage: green if I had to name it. Years ahead I am naked
in a young tub when I learn of your death on Facebook: could you imagine
it would be like this. Your eyes are burning

with Jupiter now: I see you clearer than ever:
not your hands that shook but your voice that did not
the one time I met you in a dress you complimented and I felt like a disgrace. What does it matter

I did not scream at the forest this night I learned.
Lucille welcomes you, pray, Adrienne, around the fire I am sure
you both are dancing. The cat brushing against my back
in the same endless moment: the crickets wake
where I am,

my name does not appear in the atlas next
to yours rising in braille. I would dive into the ocean
if there were one because I am reading the bottom with my finger
tips. How connected in our separateness we are. If dogs howled

now my own howl could be lost inside the collective: safe there I am
more wild than this. And you. You are free.