what won’t wash
out is a good
stain, a charming
stain in the shape
of a nymph
removing her
stockings.
while the gore
and guts are
imagined lack of
the nymph with
sweet pink calves
slack on the rug
who waits for your
also sweet stain
while you’re
busy pushing
your face under
the rug.
push the matter making center into bucket patterns.
crafted but felt a false architect shuck her.
teachers chuckling and chewing lunch when
she is putting into buckets musical grains and
arranging the buckets in a yard where
choices will be made by gardeners
or men dressed as gardeners
with thumbs dipped in sludge
or relish while wishes were drifting
through black mesh back porch doors or
the meaning of musical bucket grains when
she who is arranging to push is hate and defeats it
when the center would be simpler un-bucketed.
reclaim what is
not lost: your bones.
notice
desert is dry,
but not
infertile.
lizard tails
entwine under
red rocks
and prickly
pears are fat
with purple juice.
listen,
whether sweet
fruit or thirst or storm,
i am present,
your treasure
is constant,
and your love
is you.
The killer’s grandmother
wipes the sweat
from his forehead
with a square
of cloth.
The internet is
a silver poem and I
am a darkened staircase.
Please do not unfriend me,
oh! My shining horse.
My porn habit and sober
afterthought. My big love
coming up over the hill.
My framed trying face. No,
I am not tired. I am
red, coming up
through the bud.
hung to dry on a chinatown clothesline. graffiti nymphs giggle and paint my face with magic marker. bad books make good ladders. plastic shells go bump in a night. i am the voice of this fist. the dump truck hoofbeat. doughy matrons are my salvation. pray i fall into a bosom. soft rolls to lose my breath between. altoid dissolving in water. wool babyblanket in the piranha pond. chinese men disassemble a bed frame. spokane like a true washingtonian. red ants massage my lower back. clown, be gone. i want my belled cap back. the king and i locked ace in the basement. shooting marbles towards the open mouth of a christ-faced fish. cough up your fillings. we’ll melt all the metal we can get. skull plates and foot bolts. magnetic putty. pop the silver balloon and watch confetti fall.
i am in the crook
of a climbed
eucalyptus,
pushing my
tongue into her
green cuts.
blue shelled
pair of
squished lips
sucking rock
in a salt
bath.
i live
to collect
and shuck
the ugly
oyster.
Give me arms. I will run this whole thing. I have the hat for it. All terrestrial nations, I am addressing you. All inter-dimensional listeners, I am addressing you. My light is increasing. I am to rupture. All the demons will pour out of my laughing mouth with demons pouring out of their laughing mouths. For the son has been brought forth and no force can stop us. This is the lamb of the world we have made. Spare me some wool and some skin. Suffering is my birthright as a lamb. Unchain the buckets, pigblood prank raining on your white dress. Outside nothing is happening. The only movement is of bees, aimless, with exposed quivering stingers. My lunar organ is quietly humming. Soaping up we hope to be cleansed. Repeat the rinse. Hotter water. Removing mammalian golden hair with handled razors. Ah, the precious irritation of emergence. Sundry stimulants all blending into one ripe entry into that which is entering into us. To receive this cool blown air. We are blowing cool air out of our mouths in summer. We lay around on mattresses under open windows in denim shorts in the summer and the conversation is not so urgent then. Not like the bare limbed words of winter. The desperate eyes of forced wakefulness. The hibernating mammal cannot take this kind of slicing light. Let the lace doilies of snow fall on her burrow. Dreaming is constructive. We cross oceans and get touched. We lose everything in a swallowing storm. Dreaming is without the body so without fear. Only the dying body fears. Listen to me deeply but without worship. I am wise in gut but with green sapling trunk and just one winter’s worth of scars.
eating split open
watermelon.
Crouched in
whitesilk kimono
against
ironrod alley fence.
Black spray of juice.
Jagged pink halves,
meat-side exposed.
She’s holding a
hand-sized piece
to her mouth.
Her fingers
are long.
Her hair,
pulled back.
She’s looking
toward the lens
but not into it.
Is she looking at Araki?
(in response to Nobuyoshi Araki’s Colorscapes (Watermelon)).
button
Brentwood Library, Tennessee
I want to
go tolive there.
Photograph: Ilya Naymushin/Reuters (via 24 hours in pictures | News | guardian.co.uk)
