Tag Archives: poetry

“…”

4 Sep

“…”

He ate a can of tuna fish at lunch
in the shed where we laughed spilt sides
his mom was a drunk
she showed up in her bathrobe one day
pissed flames beside her car
oblivious of us
somehow maybe the cocky
might turn to sparrows
be free at last of us and all the chins
or maybe he stopped eating tuna fish
directly from the can
maybe he went down his own dark road
down on his lucky own tuned knees
his touch of certainty a stretch
his youth a pissed ant
his smile the friend of a shadow.

“Nobody Gets to be a Poet”

3 Sep

“Nobody Gets to be A Poet”

At the mill town
toffee by a tossed hand in stained glass
coffee by the midst of mornings
these are your purse’s strings
covered by the overalls of oil
to come on time at once at peace teatime
on my bread delivery
they say it was the river killed you
we lie in a bed of blue roses
in music you felt something natural
it was in the way you arched your back, broken strength is being afraid
your spiritual own home
baked in bread
with the insects of girlhood
because of something you said or hid.

“Roaming Light”

22 Jul

“Roaming Light”

There is roaming light across the floor
to say goodbye when our gold buckles
to be bucked from horses in soft dirty
boot buckles, because of the treasures
we found in the attic: the primal scene
enacting the tailbone;
tadpoles preserved, side by side,
for centuries in a glass tube
these were the human-shaped shadows
you used to run away with
the bell in your teeth, even during floods
matchboxes must sail away,
tugging at tigers as you tumbled
pulling patches for poor people,
the poor, poor people, witness to youth
and tomcats bribe another bride
shaking, because whiskers glow
these movements
automatic as gestures
beside the hot reek of horse piss
we were always your only girlfriend.

“Miles Away”

18 Jul

“Miles Away”

The moment a snake strikes
to slap a snake striking gurgling oil
you are gone, miles away.
And to turn off this turnstile for high pitch ribbon, miles away, this scream rises.
And to be gone, mermaid speaking,
just miles away, mermaid humming.
We can’t heart you underwater which is licked why we call our song “Miles Away,” a mermaid’s bubble pressure,
which is insincere, in a sense,
and all bird beaks grow rotten in lye
from more
and a mermaid pleasure mumbling
which is why we delicately rest your head
on a sheet of glass, to be careful
with the sheen of mermaid fish legs
exist in carefully liquid bones
razor, to be formed and then on & on
for miles
away a dream at dawn
waving why.

“Wandering Around an Old House”

16 Jul

“Wandering Around an Old House”

To believe in its miracles,
the forthright structure,
the beams of memory,
shrugged shoulders of light
in hateful corners,
crouching after midnight
lying under lie detectors smoking
with bullseyes and wasps
the ghosts kindly speak us,
their kisses hold no memories
so when we moved
the house left the earth,
unmoored, a spell spooling
bedeviled, betoken, bespoke:
it all happed yesterday
for whose fevers
we’re still leaning sharper icicles.

“Somewhere in the Sun of Sonnet Rays”

21 Apr

“Somewhere in the Sun of Sonnet Rays”

A lazy breath will clear
and breastbone
leave the deserted stone
beneath smooth waters
call us back
there’s checked coats in phone booths
and you are sheer and shimmering
and you are the gloved boots
the tousled hair
the midnight goblins riding for a final raid
for all the trendsetters are looting
and whatever we bake
crumbles in oven mitts.

“Inhabit This Body, So Long”

29 Mar

“Inhabit This Body, So Long”

Maybe a brief breeze could pass us by
an island of mailboxes, unsent letters
and your lipstick, we laughed
in your driveway, smoking
and drinking an Irish car
was bombed
when we danced on your porch
to the Beatles
I met you in New Haven or New York
maybe in time
ask a twilight magician
ask an answer for a dance
brave floods did you warn us
worn wars inside of us
cast the shadow of a jacket’s buckle
blue lipstick
to sleep on a lakeside porch
until dawn, to cry by the paddle boats
until somebody who liked you
until somebody who was your friend.

“Why this enjoyment tastes so much”

20 Feb

“Why this enjoyment tastes so much”

You would stumble through life.

You would.

Through wooded happiness

after dance of firelight.

There are only so many photos

to go through.

This is the afternoon of your life,

a specimen,

hesitating to decide.

Couldn’t just one more kiss

be a promise anew,

if we truly were happier then,

pulling cherries from you?

I walked with you long ago,

icy forests with spirits in tow.

It isn’t making sense.

There aren’t enough rumors.

A swan dive with you,

a swan for you,

and roses on your pleated lap

through all that’s cold and flame beyond

can we go on beyond the back

can we all gone beyond the blue

and ask ourselves

to drunk anaconda

to swim with sounds of wedding bells

to be on land?

“Cotton Candy Carnations”

10 Feb

“Cotton Candy Carnations”

Departed roses and heroes

from another life,

some call it otherworldly

and they’d be right in panda mittens

we wear coat-closets, milk kittens,

throw-up in a mink coat,

your jewelry mixed

with punishment mittens

punched in a fresh jugular

spaced-out space coats, controls

pierced with the caught fish

when we blubber and jiggle

the sun is an oil

racing our hearts to a fatal giggle

for nips in the buds:

there’s always a harsher yesterday

tomorrow will finally blind us

you may drink the blood of me

of cotton candy

snakes pierce shields

always sometimes through the powder

and powers that be

in vested vests and suits,

these cards a devil dwelt

feverish and heartwarm

shivering of elf and goblin ears

all in a rosy row

on a shelf above the bedstead.

“Steal this Thief of the Night”’

26 Jan

“Steal this Thief of the Night”

Doesn’t it feel wondrous to lie,

to cheat, to cast to steel?

The cold heart of conviction venison,

the voluptuousness of steel bars:

she is a raven,

fleeting in the scalding night,

fleeing a cast-iron frying pan

to destroy your face,

your fate tacky as the crackle of a panther running wild,

through streets of icicle shackles

and as it is some sort of purity,

both wondrous and genuine,

which doth plague and placate us?

Like the plaque of a spittoon?

Grizzly bear fangs?

This is the last time

I shall ever wear a wolf suit.

Leave my shadows alone.