Paper trophy—that
cuts that cuts that
cuts that cuts
that brands my XP
dry-skulled forehead
for what for what
for what for
that untuned urgent
grand piano
plucked a forte
‘plauding crowds are
worth some lint
a bunny dusted mopped
that floor—all wood—
and dry skin cells a blank-
et trampoline.
Horned yarn swords believe
the sound.
This crown chakra’s pounding on
the doors, an unlit fire. The mind
matter match is struck, the strip
a brilliant liar—who wants to find
us as taped up boxes, “Fragile,”
stamped upon the package. Shipped
to destinations where, arrived,
batteries lacking. Ill-equipped
for proper and polite usage,
to the sewage with the rest. Tossed
into the fecal matter. The cost
of the pieces unassessed. Lost.
(But don’t fret, bro, we’re all foolish sheep.
Too dumb and tired—to fallow dreams.)
He said, “I don’t want
to bleed again,” implying that
I might be the cold concrete that ripped
the flesh from his knees
three weeks ago.
If not the concrete,
then the hand who stopped him,
the hurt that drove him to tears.
Innocence hitchhikes to the airport,
cracked Raybans melted to his diamond
nose, which scarfs a final nico-fog.
Where are you lumping to?
—I’ve just enough
for a one-way coach billet.
Your sorry burnt face will hang &
your sorry balloon is popped and raw,
………….in&out the oven.
………….It’s ashen and
…………………………..it’ll hang—
Picking and flaming another fruit,
he leapfrogs from the Honda.
His empty bag secured,
he puffs his chest and flies to Guam.
You’re the kind of fish who
inches toward the bait, then
away retreats at the shiver of a finger.
Nibbling at what you know won’t hurt you,
leaving the ocean unchanged as you slip through it,
you bind my eyes and restrict them to you.
You’re the kind of boy who,
when a friend sleeps over,
doesn’t turn off the lights or the television
because, you say, you’re too drunk to do either.
But in the way you hold your arms
I feel the fear you have of me.
Turn off the TV, and we’ll discuss how to destroy the world.
Turn off the lights, and I’ll invite you to my bed.
I know a little faggot
who likes to shoot tequila,
who says, “No lime,”
and scoots to a dance club.
That little faggot’s grin
absorbs bartenders’ eyes,
and they let him drink for free,
and he’ll drink them dry.
He’s been real thirsty lately,
though he’s always shitfaced drunk,
and I bet he’ll never wake up
in arms that are warm enough.
why did
canal soot leech onto
a mix CD scratched by fear’s
unclipped fingernails if
a faulty bloodpumper
sweat the sweet
eye water to
compensate
for the
handsh-
ache?
To be read in one breath.
I can fall in love so easy like a
baby falls asleep so easy quick and
I can’t feel my head it’s spinning round a
round a carousel around like spinning
wheels and weaving wishes in to thread so
easy falling like a beat just pulsing
jazzing dancing feet I’m falling down but
speeding up and slowly passing out of
consciousness whene’er I smell the music
stepping techno over near me kind of
losing equilibrium but not from
any alcohol just spinning in my
head and kissing faces for a second’s
time but not a second time just once and
only for a second but I hope for
seconds every second moment I am
pulsing falling spinning jazzing speeding
techno stepping easy weaving quick and
dancing losing passing kissing loving
learning I can fall in love so easy
fall in love so deep and easy.
—-
Started as an exercise in trochaic pentameter for an English class rhythm assignment.
Our conversations were mostly breaths,
impatient ones that feared the other’s
voice would ever split the tethers that
bound us in nervous, melting hope.
My little chair smiles and offers me the
motherly star who lets rivers chase
down the hills to raise wheat and rice
that my thirst and hunger may end.
My little chair smiles and begs me to
lie down and sleep when the sun leaves,
deny my tongue any more honey,
but I’d again trek through the blizzard
if I could start from the warmth of a
rooftop kiss that binds me in a sun
and sings joy to the storm ahead.
—-
A general understaning of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town is requested but not required.
You were a jump rope that I
whipped ‘round myself and skipped over, and
every time you beat the ground,
your stripes were scuffed with
watermud from last Tuesday’s
abusive tempest, during which did we
herd the toys into their boxes,
the toys that held your face with
plastic, stubborn, immobile arms that
held my waist before I spotted
one galactic tear in your unblinking eye,
your clenched fists, your active tongue,
and hid ‘neath the bed scratching on paper.
