She stood in the front
Of the silver and black glass counter.
Her fingers ransacked the perfume,
Stone skin reflecting in the onslaught
Of mirrored ads and a solo saleswoman –
Ms. Fake Green Eyes was fond
Of a particular smell called Trauma or Mercy,
Some obscure name meant
To bore temptation like eggs from an roc’s nest.
Fake Eyes presses down on the black and gold
Read more "Mr. and Mrs. Medusa at the Macy’s Perfume Counter"
Spray top, a mist pours down onto my wife’s wrist,
The aftershock of a coastal storm – two presumed lost.
Station after station
of unmanned ticket booths
MetroCard swipes unlock another world.
The performers, dancers, musicians,
the bootleg dvd peddlers,
the evangelical pamphleteers who are dedicated
to convert all the New York heathens as they rush
home from their soul-suffocating jobs.
Lean against the door
Read more "14th Street – Union Square Station"
read Howl for the third time this week.
We walk up the hill
not sure how far deep
our feet will sink.
It is just December
and the day is bright
the pines and fir and spruce
We raise our heads
Read more "Trees"
from the new trail to see their heights
some look store bought
even though they have never been inside.
The sunset is made of gold. It is
made of gold, the sunset, this sunset.
It is made of gold—pure gold spills down the mountainside
and I kneel before the mountainside’s golden
Kneel on the stone and burn this image into my forsaken
Read more "The Cup of Trembling"
brain, sear gold onto my retinas, behind its sackcloth
consciousness (made of gold, it is made
of pure gold—this sunset—made of, made of, made of the quintessent
How did this happen?
Read more "Bless the Mistaken"
Did the poet really say she hates commas –
on a lake on a wind-free day or
stepping stones so even your foot
takes for granted a perfect landing
until your ankle turns a way
it was never meant to
and you must wait by the lake
to watch water rinse pebbles
We hover low over the river. His eyes are shining,
Read more "Christopher, After the Explorer"
wildfire breath coming in gasps. Wildebeests
stampede through the tall grass below us and I pray
to God everything works itself out, one way or another.
His hands are rough like mine and my father’s
before us. He’s fast undoing the knots and then
a dead weight falls away. When I look back
down, all I see are ripples across the surface
of the dark water, the disappearing backs of crocodiles.
after you cut
down the dead
the field yawns
and gives for the first
time in twenty years
of red beyond the shuddering
metal and wood teeth
the remains of man’s work
no life except
Read more "Bodies"
a gray body
shell of hollow skin
that drunk man without a home is yelling
“happy new years” but it’s only the day
after Christmas. for him, what’s the difference?
automatic doors open for me, the security officer
does not bat an eye.
Read more "the H.E.B."
while placing produce on the conveyor
I got distracted and
some little inkling of a poem slipped out
my mind, off my earlobe, and smacked
the ground. it flipped like a fish, wriggled
for some other undeserving wretch to receive.
in the middle of the
first season a group of
portal through Brooklyn––
Have you considered spiritual healing?
my eyebrows crunch together
no one’s listening
Sometimes the disease
Read more "A nurse clicks my arm to the line"
is a spiritual problem
“Another milkshake please.”
The waitress eyes her with disbelief. Catalogues her stained-through hoodie and greasy hair. Not that the waitress has room to judge with her own issues: a slight hunchback and blisters covered by her platform flats that she most certainly did not purchase in the 90’s and definitely do not smell with age.
“Another one, girly? Don’t you want some food?”
Read more "Milkshake"