On an hour lunch, I go down the street
to the bistro that makes those
deviled eggs I like.
It is cold and I dislike the word 'bistro'.
As I sit at the bar and wave to the bartender
I think about other words I
don't like.
She is annoyed with something I cannot see.
The bartender, I mean -
she casts her eyes like something sharp
across the room, but nothing dies.
"Margarita, hun?" she asks, still piercing
some foe with her dagger glance.
Nah, I say,
I'm on the clock.
A soda's fine.
Thanks very much.
Margarita is another word I don't like.
Too many r's.
Makes the Texan throat feel like a clogged
toilet bowl.
She returns with a coke, but she's deadset down the way,
and I can't help but ask,
I don't wanna be weird, but
are you okay?
She looks at me and the velcro rip
makes me teeth feel like I'm chewing
erasers.
She grunts and says, "Woman to woman?
There's a girl over there who I'm Pretty sure
used to screw my
boyfriend."
While you were dating?
"No, before"
And I spend the rest of the time wondering
if 'rural' feels good to
anyone.
He is like something you use to bruise knuckles with -
rigid and swift, bent a bit at the top
like a yard stick with its tip left under some textbooks
forgotten in Houston (or whatever moist place)
and his words are like slashes in their forward flatness,
coded slap reminders that taste like
V8 juice.
"Do you see this dark spot here?" he says
and shows me an image
of my brain, expecting
I'll know what he means without
pointing.
Everything is dark, then less dark, then lighter,
then some white, then less white
and no, I sure don't.
"HERE" he says
in a voice I imagine
cats use with each other
when talking about
dogs.
He points to the curve at the back of the brain
and taps on a large dark indent.
"Benign," he says, "You were probably born with it"
but I still don't get it, so he pulls up an image
of a "regular brain", as he forwardslash put it,
and lo and behold, a solid light curve
where mine looks like a bit like the symbol for
Wu-Tang.
It's not the source of my headaches, in fact,
apart from the birthmark crowding the back wall,
my brain is otherwise
unremarkable.
And of all the things that happened after -
the eight shots of nerve block making my head
squishy
then dead, then less dead
in the course of 6 hours -
the part that really sticks out in my mind
is how perfectly those words summed up my
whole life.
Y'ever think about our obligation to do CPR?
The fellow egging the house inside his knotted
balloon lungs
looks over like he might have heard me.
Now we have no choice.
If he goes down, I call first shift.
You can find the AED.
My drink mate grins and says, "That's fair,
but I don't think we can help him much.
He needs a plumber, not an elect-
rician."
Such a calamity of images listening to this big man cough!
Shattered glass and wet concrete
and the shrinking pores of squeezed sponges
not yellow enough to call 'em so.
You're probly right, I tell my friend,
but I'll still take first shift.
You can deal with giving them our
buttfucknowhere coordinates.
Somewhere between the bulky trash
and diesel-only truck stop.
He grins again and says, "Alright.
Considering this bar is miles from the nearest
pleasant thing. I'm willing to bet the EMTs
know where we are before I say."
I look once more to the surging eel,
muffling each shock with shaking hands and
squeezed-in 'sorry's'.
My drink mate finishes his beer and asks if I want
another.
Just tell me you never think about it.
Yes. I'll have
one more.
On the train ride home, you offer your arm;
you'll wake me when we get to our stop.
I accept your offer and lay my head
against the door attached to your
shoulder.
Certain parts beg to be expounded.
This evening, I explore
your lips.
They are subtle the way displeasure is subtle
when your mom hints that she thought she'd be
a grandmother by
now.
And you love her and you know that she
doesn't mean anything by it.
And you don't even mind broaching the subject
but it's late and you'd guessed you could get away with
picking up the food she'd packed for you
without explaining why you never want
kids.
Subtle. Subdued. Your Carried Stick lips.
And something about their comely quiet
stokes the softer Bird
in me.
The Bird is any argument; I have
t(w/o)o loud sides to
me.
He says he cries more often now.
More than he ever has before.
He cries at work and in his
room
HIS room
alone with HIS door
closed.
And I, the Always On display,
asked The Bird to let it slide.
He says he feels so little joy.
That staying out with friends just doesn't
do it for him
anymore.
I read this as our son decides
to plug his chin into the power strip
along my shoulders
ow
Ow
OW
"HERB-"
He says he misses us,
but misses visits every
week
he says he needs his family
and from the lung tops, The Bird
screams.
A man cuts off The Bird in traffic.
Occupies two parking spaces,
spites The Bird's observance of my
stolen, sometimes-patience;
her blinker - a pointless signal, he has
no clue what he's
done.
The Bird is in her element.
Parks close enough to slam her door
into his as he comes running
back
"YOU FUCKING BITCH!
YOU CAN'T DO THAT!"
And he is old
and she is hungry,
and he is small
and a bit wormy.
"Fuck you, you fucking moron.
You parked like a goddamned four year old"
He stamps his feet
like a choking chicken.
"THAT DOESN'T MATTER.
THAT DOESN'T MATTER YOU FUCKING BITCH!"
"Ah get fucked, y'old bastard"
Flips herself in his direction,
suddenly craves similar
shapes.
If you didn't know, The Bird only
EVER wants
two things:
To destroy you or be destroyed
bayou.
I was a fool
ten years removed
from noticing the trail of
seed
pockets filling /
winters seemed like
someone Else's problem
now
(other)half(hearted) texts sly
preposterous & sober in the
hard parts of the night n'
I
followed these almond-shaped eyes I
followed them back to the wall
where mounds of prayers moved mountains and I
stuffed my cheeks n'
didn't see the
box and stick and short rope
pull
and down it came
and there she stood -
The Hulking
Tweety
Bird.
N' she stole my smell and
wore my clothes and
prob'ly told you stuff that rhymed with
smeeve
and smee
smalone.
Stress does crazy things, he says.
Mixes a glass of
filtered water
with a scoop of something
from a plastic bag.
Stress does crazy things, I think
as my father simply locks the door
and I feel the weight of every car
who didn't feel I was owed a signal
he returns once more
fumbling about
asks aloud where we kids hid
his favorite tam-
bourine.
I am a guest at this strange dinner party.
Stress, like a man with one dog left,
eyes me up and
holds me down
says I don't feel like I
used
to
stress is right -
does crazy things
and the shape of my heart
more closely resembles
the squid living
inside my
brain.
Not much about me has changed
apart
from the fact
that I, Now,
sleep with my mouth
closed.
Sobriety gallops in
like a leather-bound stallion
and it rears like I'm not worthy
and I smile cause
who cares
It is like a .56 string
pulled tight til toit and tighter
stretched between my ass
and mind, on nights
like this
I prop a leg up on
each arm
of the chair and pretend
I am giving
birth
and when the feelings come-
head first
hair thick
slicked back with every sent-text
push
I press down on the string
until it changes pitch
I press down on the string
until my right eye squints
enough to convince
Anyone
that I was born to Okinawan fishermen
I press down until my feelings are placed
in bundles
blue
atop my chest
heaving
healthy
beautiful
doomed.
And it distances me.
These nothing needs.
Elephant brain recalls every ditch
that ever produced
water.
But I think I sleep better
when I breathe through my nose
and wouldn't you know it,
there's more room for breakfast.
I don't even swallow spiders
anymore.
I don't want to say 'jealous' is the word
but sitting there
quiet as a girl at her first
sleepover
realizing her hosts have licked many
boots
and here I haven't even gotten
my period
yet
sitting there
among rulers of lands
never Not under
attack
I think I felt a twinge of lust
knowing they knew Need
and I
did not.
(add water to large pot)
My relationship with you is tricky.
You - reader
Me - writer
You - wanter
Me - I guess'er
(bring to boil, add salt)
Sometimes I feel like an impostor.
That you who I consider
the Greats
get something out of all of this
that I simply
do not.
(add uncooked spaghetti, stir)
It isn't just poetry though.
I don't get much out of anything.
And that means
when the roof caves in
I don't feel very much like
dying.
I don't feel very much like living
either, but
here we are.
(10 minutes - al dente)
I won't stop here, though.
I've let you come too far.
Even if I avoid your eyes
I want to throw you against the wall
as hard and as often
as possible.
(11 minutes - firm)
And I don't mean you harm.
I don't mean you anything.
I just don't know where I fit in
among you
anymore.
(12 minutes - tender)
I don't want your concerns, but it's
only because
I don't know where they go.
I want to be the one
you throw at the wall
but I know me too well;
I know I won't
stick.
I waited around to die last night.
I am still waiting today.
To tell you in a way that makes it poetry
and not just some scared girl's final words -
it felt like the constantly running hose
in the back of my brain, you know,
where the motor skills go,
it felt like something attached itself to the pouring end
and inflated
swelled
reached its peak and then
burst.
The pop was hot and hurt like hell.
Like I'd been bludgeoned with a frying pan
and the mouse and would surely live.
Even now, the area feels strange.
I should probably see somebody.
Instead, I see I called my husband.
In my wide-eyed worry, I tried calling people
I loved at one time or another.
But I couldn't get my fingers to stop turning off
the lights.
Today,
the brain, the heart,
the body, and the wants
argue over who's to blame for this.
They grip each other by the neck
and say
You don't know how this feels.
A poet, lacking aim
but more than adequate in volume,
runs his hands down vision's sides,
comes to rest on vision's hips.
He admires the close-enoughness of
his never measured
cut.
And I, a careful reader,
cringe a bit at the word
"folds"
like a rack of discount towels or
a dog who cannot
breathe.
"I have a preposition for you"
Which one, I wondered?
Until? Concerning?
In spite of? Regarding?
butbutbutbutbutbutbutbutbubutbutbu-
"There's a show tomorrow night.
Our friends are playing.
We should go."
I consider our last meeting
n' the last thing he said.
Clouds low and heads high from
shared command of
red felt marble,
under moon and God and oath he held me like
a piece of
chalk
doomed to choke a silent blackboard
with sentences he could not speak.
"I'll figure it out, man.
I'll figure it out."
And I, drunk with static,
wanton sadness,
caustic nearness,
said nothing
then went tubing
down his lazy river
lips.
Ohhh, I know it now.
Reading his text, I know for sure.
Should I plan to Uber, darling?
Or will you give that itch
what for?
It is an unsubtle game
of who can act the MOST comfortable
in these UNcomfortable
chairs.
My legs are crossed beneath me.
My laptop is less awkward
in this elevated position.
My left foot threatens
this will not do.
It will hold its breath,
hold me hostage with
pins and needles and
hot, heavy death.
Nobody else knows this
and so
I am winning.
I can't sneer here like I can sneer
at Other coffee shops.
Not with this faggoty mountain of adult dessert
playing footsie with my
tongue.
Cold make-believe coffee and public wi-fi
on this dog breath Ju-ly day!
Folds of caramel, cookie bits like
shattered glass
and whipped cream
for fucking
miles.
I act like I'm above it
but
truth is, I'm under
neath.
The death has spread into my leg.
My neck is cricked,
my back is spooned.
These chairs feel like a polite plea
to make like trees
with newborn seeds
finish our drinks, then fuckin'
leave.
I'm lactose intolerant, if you didn't know.
That's how underneath it
I am.
I don't understand anything.
Yet here I am, bright white t-shirt,
clean wet hair,
pretending I understand
everything.
I slept like an arthritic's fingers last night.
So much so that I dreamed I was crippled.
And someone'd offered to shoot me
to take my mind off the pain.
But I punked out cause my dreams are
seldom
very
dreamy.
When I woke up, I took my morning piss.
And a fly. Fat and panicked.
Cycled through stages of grief.
Making every effort to crash
into every goddamned thing.
I pondered this a long while.
If that idiot would just relax,
he would see I left the door cracked.
He could fit through the crack
and be free.
But then I consider that leaving the bathroom
only now means being trapped
in a much larger space.
More room to Fly, but trapped all the same.
Nowhere is free.
Nowhere is safe.
I pissed and got real sad about it.
When I flushed, I sprayed him
with my sister's deodorant.
I figured contents under pressure might
cancel each other
out.
But they didn't.
He became frantic.
And I wondered if his frightened fly heart
would explode in his stupid fly chest.
This is me.
Pretending I understand anything.
I'm at work now.
I'm at work and I'm thinking
about my
ex-husband.
How I don't think I hate him cause I
don't hate the fly,
and they essentially have all the same
problems.
If he'd relax instead of drinking himself
into deaf, dumb, numb and blind tizzies,
crashing into walls
buzzingbuzzingbuzzingbuzzed,
he'd see that there were simple solutions.
(Stop
and Being
and Such
and An Asshole)
I don't hate him because,
like everything,
he hurts.
Like everything, he wants out.
Like everything, he only knows
to crash into walls
until the cracks in the ceiling
resemble daylight.
He doesn't know what else to do.
And so me, who only knows what Not to do,
decide I do not
hate him...
You hear that, you gasoline-bellied,
ship-jumping prick??
This is me.
Understanding.
Everything.
By virtue of my Spanish blood,
I guzzle red wine and hither
the bull.
He sometimes resembles
my lifetime of worry;
more often he resembles
the closed fist of
lost tongues.
And he thrashes about so magnificently.
Eyes frightened and alive,
he wishes I'd stop
calling.
And I, with my daring and
death wish and duty,
pick up the red phone
and so tempt him
again.
I worry you don't understand me, reader.
It is a sad stupid dance
and I don't blame your stillness.
For those of you still placing
your bets on the bull,
know that I invite him
well fed and
uninjured
but he will not leave
this
way.
And there will be cries of unimaginable
sufferings,
but I'll only be able to
half (h)ear them.
The older I get, the more I understand
the heart of hard things
like war.
My son is sitting in the living room.
He scratches at his toe and whines.
It is swollen. Little wagon red.
Something has bitten him.
.
..
...
An ant!
Bitten him on his stupid way
to wherever it is
ants go.
And I do not think to kill the ant.
Instead, I think to follow him
back to his ant friends and
family
and kill them all just as hard as I
can righteously think to do.
I think to scorch the earth beneath
the shadow of the mound
so that future ants and ticks and fleas
and flying things and neighbors with
chickenpocked dots by their names
will KNOW
I AM
the LORD.
And I think to do this
because I love my son.
And it's strange (but not terribly surprising)
that people love land
the same.
I used to pretend I was someplace else.
Someplace like the lake, where the feeling of being
dragged out in plain sight
made a little more sense.
And the weight of his water
pressing down on my chest,
it just made more sense to imagine the lake
cause even now, the rapture
he poured down my ears
still leaks if I tilt my head just
right.
I can joke about it now cause I wasn't there.
So where is it I go anymore?
Recently, I tried not to go
anywhere.
I stared right at his face
and told myself to accept it.
He is a man, not a redwood
towering over my small form.
He is a man, not a funnel
descending upon poor farmland.
He is a man, I told myself
but it didn't do much good.
He was a man I watched from someone else's TV.
I flipped back and forth between channels
and when I saw that it was over,
I think I wanted to feel sad.
But I couldn't because it did not happen to me.
This eternal disconnect is helpful that way.
I've made two jokes in as many hours
about Hemingway -
that blast from the past.
Three now.
Still not sorry.
I'll tell you why that's
significant.
The storm blew in not long after he left.
And I'd held his eyes with every thrust
and kissed him the way
I know he likes.
And I whispered things like secrets
as I asked to be
turned over.
And when I felt his rhythm
go from needy to need-
ing,
I told him what he needed to hear.
And so it went.
And so it goes.
And off he went.
And so I go
back to this poetry thing.
Where I split myself
(again)
for you.
Except I mean it here.
I mean I mean it more than I mean it
There.
There is just where I remind myself
that God hates women
almost as much
as he hates
run-on sentences.
I'll tell you something interesting.
I am standing attentive,
a real professional, you know,
and I am scratching my belly
and the act of scratching
my professional belly
has activated the detergent
and I can now smell myself.
And not that I think it'll mean anything to you,
but I smell like a boy
I thought I loved back in high school.
And this is significant, see,
cause in scratching my belly,
I am suddenly taken back to a
copper Carolla.
And an automatic carwash
with fruity specks of
rainbow soap.
And to a bed whose sheets smelled like his clothes.
And when he looked into my eyes and asked me
if I was ready,
I knew right then that it meant nothing (to me)
cause to myself,
as he pushed forward,
I ridiculed his
silly question.
And not that I think it means anything to you,
but that's quite a lot to suddenly recall
with the simple scratch
of a belly.
He asks me what I think my ‘love language’ is.
It is a stupid thing he learned in
marriage counseling,
which is funny considering his pants are
off.
I don’t know, I say.
What are my options?
“Well there’s gifts,” he says
as I take his cock in my mouth,
“mmm, it’s like, uh, love to you means
getting and giving gifts and stuff”
Mhm, I reply,
running my tongue around the curve of his head.
I raise up and work him with my hand.
What else?
“God…there’s words of affirmation”
Yea?
“Yeah, like,
telling you that you’re really fucking good at that”
Mhm, I resume sucking him.
I make a motion with my free hand to hurry it up.
“Fuck…ah, you gotta slow down. There’s…there’s uh,
there’s, fuck, you gotta slow down…”
I raise up and put my hands
behind my back
like I’m under
arrest.
You have my full attention, I say.
His cock bounces between us
like an anxious child
caught between two arguing adults.
He lets out a heavy exhale, “Well,
there’s the gifts, and the words of affirmation,
and there’s physical touch, you know.”
Well I DID.
“And, uh, quality time? Like
spending time
together.
Then there’s acts of service.
I think that’s the last one.”
So which is it, I ask.
“Which is what?” he replies.
I notice his cock toeing the dirt
in the outfield.
I mean which thing do I need to say
to get you to stop talking about this?
“Physical touch” he groans.
He looks disappointed.
Which is a funny thing considering
his pants are
off.
Then that one, I say
and bring his cock back to life.
It’s such a weird thing when he wants to talk.
As I swirl my hands in time with my mouth,
he erupts in a chorus of
drawn out ‘fuuuuuuuuuck’s.
As I’m leaving, I notice its started to rain.
I’d walked there, but he’d passed out on his couch
not long after.
I grab a newspaper and cover my head.
Should have said service, I guess.
Bar(istas)
I’ll tell you the difference between writing at the bar
and writing in a coffee shop
where they put leaves
in cream
on your coffee.
For starters, the drinks here taste like raisins.
I prefer my drinks taste like
rye bread.
And they’ve got those designs on top
and they watch you;
these coffee shops are all so
damn small
they watch you so you can’t react
and whisper that it tastes like
raisins.
Second,
the women next to me are educational
professionals.
And you find plenty of those in bars
‘cept at the bar, they’re honest
and sweaty
and vulgar
and here, their hair’s done
and they’re quiet
and they’re happy
that the coffee tastes like raisins
cause raisins
are blahblahblah.
Second and some,
the man to my left
appears to be in deep thought.
His laptop is about as nice as mine.
He looks about as serious as me.
But my coffee is disgusting and he’s on his
third cup.
I’ll tell you how the bar is the same as this shop, though.
The smell stays on you.
Runs its dehydrated fingers through your hair.
It’ll be damn near impossible to pretend I
wasn’t here.
And I get about as much writing done
here as I do
there
‘cept there, when I get a drink I don’t like
I call the barkeep a mook
and he pours me something different
licks the rim before handing me my
glass,
and here, I say stupid things like
“Thank you,
it’s delicious.
How’dja get the cream to
do that?”
"It screams", Robert says,
"the energy emitted
from particles being torn
apart".
He smirks at dark matter.
Says, "There is something else.
Something there we cannot see.
Some dark force with mass and all gravity
that does not interact with things
the way most every observable thing
does."
And my heart feels flighty,
like its been asked to dance.
And I feel panic as my brain teeth attempt to gnaw
this
raw
red
information.
And when at last I think I understand,
when I think I possess the guts to face
the weight of the unknown,
I look up to see him
smiling
and it occurs to me
I do not.
My son lay stretched across us,
my mom and I
the upright sticks in an uppercase
H
and my son stretched across us
to bridge our singularities
my son stretched across with heels dug in my
side.
And I stayed very still and I stared very long
at the movie playing on the
ceiling.
A romantic getaway one year ago.
How I loved him then, him = he
who shall not be
named.
How we'd laughed and kissed
and made love by the window.
Curtains open,
city watching,
saying, "I remember when".
I stayed very still with my son stretched across us
because his toes are the cops
and my ribs are the cell
and my presence is a man
too thin for jail.
Justice is swift; I do not test them.
I stay very still and I keep watching the ceiling.
Another movie's begun - the birth of our son.
The erection and climax of doubt
wiped clean by a love that came easier
to him.
I close my eyes and start to crack a smile
but shift my weight
instead.
Officer Tootsie is quick on the draw
and with one smooth motion
his heel comes down on an organ
I'm certain
certain
is vital.
And the movie is gone
and the pain is immense
and that's the way it should stay.
Time is what touches me most often
anymore.
I am something like the word ‘dollop’,
‘plopped’, ‘pulp’, ‘pullup’, ‘polyp’.
Analog eyes brace themselves for the knock;
signals flutter, readjust, find a bathroom mirror
snowing.
Face.
Timid tinsel strands peek out
like children hoping for adoption,
their brothers
plucked
to a chorus
of
wide-eyed
o-shaped
Screams.
Well don’t you worry, silver birds
for as sure as canyons start out as streams,
so too shall you
inherit
the
earth.
It isn’t the liquor that makes me feel
Slinky
Sexy
Cat’s corvette
It’s the music
No one else can
hear
It’s the music shoved
Deep in my ears
And my breasts plump up like
Corn fed chicks
My ass perks up like
Spring break teens
And I want you here
I mean, I guess
It’d be nice if someone bore witness to
how sexy
I think I
Get.
On nights like this, I consider
my father -
windowless room
concrete column
humid springtime air
unmoving
I liken his shoulders to the expectation of this
desk
I liken his body to the vaulted
cycloid ceiling
He is something like concrete himself, you know
and here, tonight
my beanbag body
slumps toward morning hours.
The sun must soon be rising, I think;
I hear birds chirping through the speaker.
It is 9AM on a Sunday.
The woman next to me is beautiful
in that leather-bound, rhinestone cowboy
kinda way.
Blonde. Perky. Tips a hat she isn't wearing
toward my pasta dish and third
margarita.
"I like your style!"
Her name is Bre but I pronounce it Brie,
and I chuckle to myself coz
I'm dumb that way.
Brie's boyfriend isn't answering his phone.
Brie's boyfriend is ignoring all her texts.
She tries and tries, but it's no use.
He left the night before and has not returned.
"So I say," Brie rears, "'whatever you're doing,
whoever you're with,
wherever you are,
just go ahead and stay there'"
And I applaud her and toast her
attractive Irish Coffee,
that sexy swirl of whipped cream floating
atop a shapely cup of
Joe.
I know just how you feel, I say.
My husband left us five months ago.
Decided that he'd rather drink
than get to know his baby boy.
"Oh baby girl" Brie starts to say,
but I continue on,
And I get to thinkin' men are villains.
In fact, I say, they are animals
predisposed to eating their
young
"Ain't that the truth!" Brie says and toasts,
but I go on coz I ain't done,
And they might oughta separate men entirely.
Consider the fact that men make the most crime.
They're the killers. They're the rapists.
They're the burglars, crooks, and thieves.
They're too dangerous to live in civilized society!
And I think I must have lost her there,
cause it looked like she was trying him
again.
I apply myself topically, I said
in thin, creamy layers/ an Elmer-fine paste
and people apply me to their hands, I find
they wring their wrists
with globby drops of
me
and I smell like unfinished wood, I think
I think I might sound like
sandpaper hooves
the shape of my voice is like apartment carpet,
or the texture, rather
the shape is more like
broken down cardboard
(flat and ready
to be built or discarded)
I say this, I said
so that you might understand better
why I never go with y'all to
karaoke.
(witness)
My son is napping in the next room.
I've become my father in that sleep
no longer requires soft things,
sheets,
blankets, beds,
night or
consent
and I would love to be the log he saws
but time alone is valuable;
worth its weight in stolen
gold.
(victim)
It is dark.
It is dark because I have the light off.
I have the light off because I don't want to wake him.
He is asleep in the next room
but I have the light off and I don't want to
wake him.
I have the light off and so
it is dark.
(brief description of the incident)
I am reading the poetry of a man
who buried his father
in 100
and 85 pages.
I consider my father,
asleep down the hall.
Lights on and TV
blaring.
I consider my husband,
wide awake
across town
buried beneath
that soil taste of
Miller Lite.
It'd be simpler if he were dead.
Not better, but
simpler.
I could write a book and move on.
(CCTV supports report)
At least he's staying quiet over there.
Which is more than I can say for
my father.
I set out a row of roses
on a towel on the floor.
Pink. Yellow. Pink. Pink. Yellow.
The pinks are singed and look like
'mallows
held to the fire by a careless child.
My son carries my seriousness
like a stack of books on his
sweaty head
carefully, he kneels and selects a flower
"Pink fwower. Fwower is pink"
Satisfied with his correctness,
he catapults the flower over
his shoulder
Onto the next,
"Oh. It's yeh-woah. Yeh-woah fwower"
And over his shoulder it soars.
Something about the thud,
the soft smack of petaled lips
falling to earth
from great distance...
"Pink" he says.
There's a pattern. New test.
He shakes the pink rose violently,
petals exploding like pigeon feathers,
eventually
snapping its neck.
He repeats this and hands it back
"It's bwoken" he says
"I'll say", I reply.
For the while, he's too young to realize/wonder/
ask with no control
Where is my-
Didn't we-
Don't I look like-
Who's that man?
'Dada' falls from leaving bees
trickles down the bulb, dots drops
of what can only become steam
down his Only-Two-Thank-God
stem of Know and Must Let Go
falls silently into a room
where nothing makes it
out
squash and stow away these things:
coos, crawls, w's for r's,
dada, hiding, mama, crying
saying, leaving, crying, dada
leaving, leaving, leaving, leaving
Leaving, Leaving, LEAVING,
LOOK!
Here comes the tongue depresser now!
The memory french presser now!
He doesn't understand it yet
and likely won't for a long time,
but the effort taken by his brain
to mash this into Nothing
cubes
it's on par with what I think I'm doing/with what
I Hope I'm
doing.
I read about nuclear disasters sometimes.
When I get a wild hair, I
decide to read
in explicit detail
the events that lead to
Chernobyl
Kyshtym
Fukushima
Windscale
and neverminding the fucking
Horror of it,
neverminding the sirens and reminders to stay calm,
neverminding the mothers unable to stop
the cells from changing inside their
children
neverminding all of that,
the thing that gets me
are these fucking sicko
photographers
they really seem to get off on the
evacuation
preservation
sees mid-saw
trees like sentimental statues
in courtyards littered with
yesterlife's problems
And whatever, you know.
It's their business and all.
But sitting here now
in my unoccupied apartment.
Toys at the ready.
A yellow ring around the sink.
I can't help but feel like some wackjob photographer
is just waiting for my skin to start
itching.
O what a sight THIS
is!
Starkist lemon
pepper
cat food
prison plate with
plastic
ware
don't I look like something
borrowed?
"ex" "estranged" licks maroon lips
thinks "knife" looks strange
on paper.
The older women are war painted
beautiful formations like diamonds
in caves
and when death approached for one of their
own,
I planted my feet and I tried to be brave
I watched it start by removing her voice
but not before she gave it
to my mother
one last time
And I watched it blow out every star,
every candle,
every flaming thing she kept hidden in her
eyes
and then it came for her warmth
and it drained all her color
and when death arrived, I tried to be brave
the older women looked on
with tight lips and strong jaws
and I looked away
fucking
afraid.
I was out a few nights ago at a bar across the street from my job.
And I'd been there a while and got to feelin' pretty down about
what a terrible mother
I'd allowed myself to become.
Then.
Like a scene from Jaws,
A bright orange balloon buoy began zooming through the water-
logged patrons.
I followed it with my eyes, back and forth it went
with great speed
and shit accuracy.
A few chairs were bumped,
tables scooted.
Then.
I saw that the balloon was tied
to a kid. 5 at the very oldest.
And I felt instant
awful
relief.
Does beer salt expire? he asked, shaking
another layer of spicy salt
in the lettuce palm
of his croissant hand
lick
I don't think so, I said,
might taste less potent
maybe?
He continued this
shake lick
shake lick
shake shake shake
liiiiick
You should lighten up, he says
shake shake
shake
shake
lick lick lick
I
can see how much it's killing you
that I didn't wash
my hands.
One particular male pretended to be asleep
and let his fat, frustrated hands
wander off his lap
over my pre-teen legs
to the top of my elastic pants
and down my floral print
panties.
Another held me against a wall
in school
and asked what I would do
if he decided he'd rather just
"take it".
Another happened when I was too little to recall
very many details
apart from always feeling
very scared to be around
him.
One told me I shouldn't be that way.
It'd be fun.
I owed it to our friendship, plus
Who else was I giving it
to?
How many flat-tongued remarks
have been dragged across my body?
How many "accidental brushes"
against my butt, my breasts,
my thighs, my floral
print?
I am 30 now and the attitude has changed
toward those of us
now speaking out.
They believe us, sure
they believe us.
But their Tommy Guns don't.
Oh, this fucking
back patting
siiiigghh
deciding I am way past
through
looking for you,
stuffing telegrams in the bag of a
messenger
shot clear through the ovals
over
and over
again
pulling strings
crushing cans
pressing hard against
the
wall
there are plenty of poets
picking up that s l a c k
forging their bodies
of passion and
work
in your
disappearing
reappearing
ink
Oh, this pick-me-up!
do my tits look
perky yet??
You're a Native Land I've decided to name
/claim
/blame
I had nothing to do with "discovering" you.
And I'll accept that I'm likely
the savage one.
If those particular words
in that particular order
don't make you want to scrape your tongue
(the way my son
does,
exaggerated, and with lots of
spit-ooeys)
then sit down and join me for a lovin' spoonful.
There's 46OZ left.
When do I feel I became a non-sexual object?
Long before this tub of egg mustard potato salad,
I assure you.
I'd have to say sometime around
getting married
and...
realizing that I can type
roughly
108wpm.
Say what you will - you were gonna anyways -
but, a freshly lit cigarette might very well be
the sexiest thing
I've seen all night.
I know, I know.
I was supposed to talk about me being this Thing.
Like a fax machine, or a dented
K-cup.
But.
This cigarette, sleek and wispy,
threw me off.
And with any luck at all,
I'll land on something
hard.
Like the fact that I Know
this cannot go on
forever.
Allow me to examine this
"trapped feeling"
more closely.
I feel comfortable with dying,
but I don't believe I want to.
It may be more accurate to say
that I feel comfortable with saying
that I feel comfortable with dying.
I don't want to, though.
I'm at least That sure.
Do I believe that I am better than
married? working?
caring for my child who radiates
Life?
Is a handful of dirt not also the Earth?
It is nothing to conquer the land.
To let it pass through my fingers
or let it go undiscovered
down roads that don't take me
to work or back home.
What is it I feel I am missing then?
The Love? The Sex?
Sex is boring; what hope does love have?
And I have it already! The love,
not the sex.
Sex with ME is boring.
Love takes long looks
out a dirty window.
If the window were dirtier,
sex might not be boring.
Where do I feel it is happening?
On a battleground!
In the eyes of small men!
But those men most certainly want to die
even if they're not comfortable with saying it
yet.
It's a physical pull now.
The urge to stop by the bar after work.
Down a shot. See some tits.
Something. Anything.
Anything not home
and not dead
and not work.
I don't have to like it;
I usually don't.
And it's not even the alcohol, really.
I just-
You just need to feel
like you're getting away with something, he says.
YES.
He smiles and nods.
I don't like his smile.
Like he thinks he's what I'm getting away with
today.
And I spend buttloads of money doing it, see.
One shot here. Two beers there.
These tall margaritas are good for 4 pours,
but they're 12 bucks a piece
and I usually have two or three.
Then there's the lying and cutting class and
asking for help
when I know I don't
deserve it.
I get to feeling like a real scumbag, I say.
And he smiles
and I wish he'd stop
doing that.
I take my seat at the bar,
order one beer and close my tab.
A man sits two stools down from me.
Orders a Shiner and a shot of Jack
then asks the bartender to close him out.
"I just bought a brand new pillow" he says
to no one in particular.
His head looks like the yellow splotch
on a particularly ripe watermelon.
Middle aged and typical, I imagine he's married
and hasn't had to tie his shoes in a very
long time.
Tell me about this pillow, fella.
"It's one of those My Pillows they advertise on the radio"
Sports radio! I know the one.
What better advertisement for revolutionary comfort
than through the garbled lip vision of an AM jockey.
"I haven't slept on it yet; it just arrived today"
He nurses his beer and appears to be saving
the shot of Jack for the very end.
Are you excited? I ask
He nods and looks worried.
He's a harmless sort.
A knee-socks kinda guy.
The kind to eagle 2 holes in a row
but write birdie and par on his score card
just to keep people from thinking
he's some kind of cheat.
What will you do if it disappoints you? I ask
Write a strongly worded letter, I hope.
He smiles and says
"Nah, I couldn't do that.
I'd probably just hang on to it like I do
everything else"
At that, I ordered myself a shot.
And we shared a toast to the saddest thing
I'd heard all goddamned day.
You can't argue with the existence of bars,
I mean,
even the priest with his hands dug deep
in the wallet of a God he's Pretty sure
is asleep...
even the whores inspecting new goods
with a tooth sucked tsk and 'that'll do'
especially the kids sidelined with asthma
and the wives who'd be the first to tell you
their husbands are only
acquaintances
who never seemed to turn
the page
they'd all tell you the bars
are real
and it is only after putting
another dog in the ground
that I feel I may have unearthed
some peace;
the bars are real and never moving,
but the space on either side is
juuuust wide enough
to forget which side is free.
I'm paraphrasing
but
Robert,
in an attempt to cheer me up,
said something to the effect
of
THERE IS AN ULTRAMASSIVE BLACK HOLE IN THE OBSERVABLE UNIVERSE WITH THE MASS OF 400 BILLION SUNS. THIS PARTICULAR OBJECT OCCUPIES NO SPACE. IT MAINTAINS ALL MANNER
OF MASS AND GRAVITATIONAL PULL, BUT AS IT OCCUPIES NO MEASURABLE SPACE, IT SIMPLY IS AND IS NOT. YOU, MY DEAR, ARE AN EXTREMELY FORTUNATE COALESCENCE OF ENERGY.
And he wasn't yelling or anything,
but I feel like anything That heavy
(400 BILLION SUNS heavy)
prob'ly shouldn't lean against
the wall.
It's fair to say it takes shapes, I tell her,
the unhappiness,
it's like
well, like water, I guess
it waits for whatever new thing
to fill and then
be
and it stays until whatever thing breaks -
the happy times, I guess,
then in floats another
gaping mouth
I wish you wouldn't tell me things like that, she says,
pulling her sleeves down, covering up the fresh red loopholes
she calls
a new kitten
So why ask, I say
She doesn't know.
They never do.
Do you want me to order you some food, he asks.
He's an alright guy when he's not acting married.
When he treats me like a customer,
that's when I like him best.
Thanks, I say,
but I don't get lunch on Sundays.
It's Thursday, he says.
He looks disappointed.
Then why doesn't it feel like Thursday, I ask.
Because it's Tuesday, my mom replies.
She dries her hands and we walk out of the bathroom.
She asks if I'm feeling okay.
I'd feel better if I knew what day it was.
We'd feel better too, boss man says,
jotting little notes, asking me to sign here.
I smile weakly.
Mondays, am I right?
But my voice doesn't carry past
the first row of
pews.
I don't know, man.
Sounds are just different for me.
I see shapes. Places. Ordinary nouns
like mattresses and apples,
but sometimes I see hammers
axles and ashy
elbows of the
Lord.
I'm not going to say only the smart ones
listen to it.
Hell,
Eric fucking Baker
who swore to anyone who would fucking listen that I
stuffed my bra
6th thru 8th grade -
he listened to Beethoven cause he liked
how music could sometimes force itself
upon you.
And he was worth about as much as
the oil stains on F and J.
Maybe less.
At least F and J mean
I'm at or near
home.
Anyways,
what I'm trying to say is that
Szeryng's interpretation of
Romanian Folk Dances
makes me think of a less-than sign
followed by a raised left eyebrow
and wrists and fists all downward
followed by a
waterfall.
There is something very
Animal
about being able to pick out
the leader
in any group.
These three silly
straws,
buck'apiece WITH the
helmets,
they are cranking away on their
handlebars,
rocking back and forth at the light.
The leader is easy. He wears a black jacket
that slopes where adult male shoulders
ought to go.
Inches up
glances back
signals to
one
GO!
He pulls hard on the reins of his
rocking horse,
wills it to one wheel,
carries on a few
blocks.
The other two flank him,
keeping annoyed drivers back
a-ways.
I watch all of this while,
inside my own car, my darling Elliott
plinks his keys n'scratches strings.
I breathe deep the wispiness of that
tortured soul
and suddenly, it all seems so
ridiculous.
Those limp-dick vanilla beans want to die
just as bad as everyone else.
But unlike my darling Elliott here,
they lack the courage to do so
alone.
Alright, forget the blueberry
(though how could anyone forget that
Bouncing Blue Perfection?)
forget the blueberry and tell me
what it is you think
you're missing.
Life, he says. The Life, he repeats.
Seeing the world. Courting pretty girls.
Drinking warm wines and cold beers.
Smearing avocado on every god
damned thing.
And why can't you have those things now, I ask.
Because Fort Worth is nowhere.
Nothing. Nada.
Zip. Zero.
Zilch.
Null. Void.
Less than-
Woah.
I'm going to have to stop you right there, Fuzzy Grape.
You could court pretty girls if you weren't so dramatic.
Dramatic?
Dramatic.
With your pocket fulla syno-
nyms.
And you can drink what you like -
Total Wine is open
nearly every damn
night.
Save for Sunday, of course.
We're not heathens, after all.
And seeing the world?
Who the hell needs it.
You could be so busy living the life right here
that you never even wonder
what the Swedes are doing.
And the French? The fucking French,
they WISH they could get their hands
on that creamy green
3 for'a
dollar
at the Fiesta Food Mart like
we do.
I can't understand the madness, I told him.
I work and I go home and I play with my son
and sometimes I have a drink and sometimes I
fuck my husband and
sometimes I lie awake on the couch for
hours
and I think about nothing at all.
Mostly nothing, I amend,
sometimes I think about the rewards for labor -
paying off the cars in a couple of years,
how much money that will save us
each month!
What madness, I ask
but he doesn't reply.
Instead, he pushes his muffin in my direction.
I'm not hungry, he says.
Suit yourself.
I take a bite and out rolls a fat
blueberry.
Look! I say.
This is exactly what I'm talking about.
From being grown, gathered, shipped, sold,
selected, stored, BAKED
it has retained this perfectly round
shape.
As I picked it up and threw it away
I felt sad and altogether
certain
the poor bastard would never be
happy.
The nursing home my grandmother stays in
has little to no
creative outlets
save for the one
grand piano
twinkling it up in the
lobby.
It only knows the one song
which is funny and sad
considering the facility
caters to patients
with failing n' hard-
boiled
brains.
So while I count another measure
from those flying phantom
keys
they just sort of sit and wonder
who it is that plays
so good.
I cursed the near death of a homeless man today.
Some white ladies in the neighborhood
adopted
him.
Paid for his medical
expenses
and all.
Food. Clothes.
Shelter. Surgery.
And I spit sparks for all the normies
no one will ever care
about.
But I do that, you know.
I bite my tongue into
pieces
cursing things I can't control
damning folks I've never
met.
And I guess I might finally get
the cruel perfection of the
damn piano -
nobody really knows Why we're here,
and we're all sort of doomed
to repeat our
selves.
Fuzzy grape person says there isn't anything worse
than when you Nothing someone.
Or when someone Nothings you.
To feel about someone the way most people feel about
that off-white color apartments and new houses use
to differentiate the true white trim.
It's got some yellow and brown in it, like an overripe banana
but then they suck it of all richness
and the resulting neutral hue is nothing
anyone notices first or
at all.
"That's how you KNOW you fucked up", he says,
"When someone NOTHINGS you".
And I don't tend to agree with him on much.
I drift between liking him okay
and wanting to stick
my finger in his mouth
(like a hook giving the heave-ho
to a bent straw duck-billed dancer)
and then pulling until I find the
blue wire (go
boom!)
But even This is Something against the Nothing I feel
for most Everyone else.
See? This is the second poem I've referenced him in.
And that may as well make him
a ridiculous, grapey god
next to the poems I'll never write about
the rest of you.
I officially mind your absence, man.
So to fill the time and satisfy
the space,
I'll tell you my stupid
horse story.
So I'd gone to the Stock Show, you know,
it's tradition that managers
sort of sneak out n'just
go
so I'd gone and there stood
four giant ass horses
all in an obviously
on-duty
row
and Rickey, you know, he'd been saying
for years
that I needed to touch
a horse's
nose
so I walk up to the cop atop
the horse and say,
"I've never actually seen a horse up close,
is it okay if I touch its nose?"
and the cop laughed and laughed
and I took that as a yes
so I touched the nose and woah,
soft as cock in a very
hot
tub
So
I get back to work and I tell Rickey, you know,
I say, Rickey, I finally done
that horse's nose non
sense
and he smiles
and shouts,
"feels different from the rest of the horse,
doesn't it?"
and I cursed myself for what
I'd have to say to the
cop
when I walked back to find out
the difference.
I take more than a little exception to the fact
that country folks live amongst
city kids
a duck flew into the reflecting pool, I say
so what? big deal!
what kinda duck?
The fuck should I know?
Any kind of duck
is an unusual find
on museum grounds
but
typing this now, and
recalling my point,
I can see why we both took
offense.
My dad isn't sure why I write
or what it means
or who the hell reads
or why we're not all
killing ourselves
at work.
I mean,
I'm doing that, too.
I think. I am.
I feel. I am.
Working all the god
damned time.
I write like I speak
like I think like I
want
and there isn't a single profound thing
about it.
But dad says he supports
this useless endeavor.
And he's killing himself
at work, so
there's that.
The glass is from a pack of nice highball glasses
someone gave to us
at some point
I'm pretty
sure
There's this neat, ornate gold rim around it.
Is that redundant?
rim around?
It's nice, man.
It looks like something you'd see
in a hotel lobby
as the little red-headed girl behind the desk
informs you she's got no more room
for wolves
So!
Gold rim, nice highball glass
with those squiddy baby nubs at the bottom
you know
those protruding pinkie toes
and
a line of bubbles
like a frantic series of coded messages
straight up
and constant
This particular glass of champagne
has been sitting for
oh
30 minutes, I guess
but bubbles bubbles bubbles
in a perfect little line
straight up
Shake the glass a little and you get a
Galaga effect
shake it real fast and you get
your imprisoned second man
back
Spin the glass entirely
and you get like a
digital piano
run
chromatic like a
finger
all inclusive
blacks and whites
bddddddddrrrrrrrrrrpp!
Anyway
I guess I should get around
to having some
it is 5:20 already
and I told myself I'd be finished
by now
I want Herbert to box, he says.
Why would you want that?
It'll be good for him, he says.
Make him tough so nobody messes with him.
Like who?
He shrugs his feminine shoulders.
Other kids. Adults. I don't know.
My brother did it when he was a kid
and I want Herb to do
the same.
Well that's just fine for your knucklehead brother,
but my son isn't
boxing.
He's gonna get messed with!
I square up and get in his face.
And who's going to mess with him, huh?
You?
You, you little bitch boy?
Is that what you're saying?
He puts his head down and shrinks into a ball.
Cut it out, he says.
Speak up, lady. They can't hear you in the back.
Who do you think is going to mess
with my son?
He stays in a defensive curl
until I walk away
and I get to thinking, you know,
boxing might do him
some good.
Look, man.
I'm simple like the shapes of vowels
(except the e, that one's a bitch)
and I can't handle all your stars and
spherical nonsense, it's
just too much for me to think about
I
do well enough throughout the day to not
throw myself down the fucking
stairs
and they're very pretty pictures and all
but I have little to no use
for new words
to old problems.
fuck these right-hand suggestions, man
i'll start mid-sentence
or i simply won't-
synonyms, rhymes, trends
christ
i'll tell you which words
hit softest
to hardest
like'ta
oughta
need'ta
gonna
want'a
wantchu
aim'ta
getchu
-finish at all
we make the rules here
and these pre-tend poet participles?
lettum dangle
on every false
Start
t-shirt
towels
blanket
couch
everything
the color brown
coaster
table
carpet
chair
the light behind his
light brown hair
garage door
front door
bedroom sheets
(that's just a guess;
I'll see next week)
i don't believe in spoken poetry
more specifically,
i don't agree with the type of person
that GOES to spoken poetry readings
morbid bunch of so's and so's
trying to piggyback off of some breathy mope's dilemma
they want your laughter in their throats and to hurt where you hurt
and your points poking holes through their
blank construction paper
they want to make your problems their problems
knowing they can go home at
anytime
and none of it goes with them unless
they buy the book
of course
well guess what, you cowardly pieces of shit
this bike is flying off the canyon alright
but it ain't a two-seater and you're not
invited
"You did how many peyote buttons?"
"No," I tell him, "it's not like that."
"I just see things when certain people talk.
Sounds are like that for me"
"Alright. Sam Coffman?"
"The soft side of velcro wrapped around something hard"
"David McMillan?"
"Folded paper airplanes"
"Don Morrison?"
"Those teeter-totter horses you put a quarter in outside of supermarkets"
"Richard Levandowski?"
"Hot cinnamon apples and mashed potatoes"
"Me?"
"The couch we had growing up. It was grayish-blue with random lines of color sown down it.
It was covered in lint balls that tickled your hand if you rubbed it real fast."
"I remind you of a couch?"
"Yeah"
"Well how about you?"
I wanted to tell him I see two-dimensional objects when I talk.
Like a stack of wet cardboard flaps.
Or a tilted view of a line graph.
Or powder blue rubber mallets
that make gross, fleshy thuds
instead of fun, bouncy booms.
It was a lot to say in my dumb, nothing voice.
"Dewlap", I said.
And we left it at that.