I feared it would be like pulling teeth,
all hide-and-seek to avoid betrayal, not easy
like removal of a five-year-old’s wiggled incisor.
Then the miracle that my cupped hands
in hers hold water, no leaks,
no protruding river veins or age stains,
they look prayerful rather than begging.
Read more "Interpolating from the Inspection of My Shadow "
My pointed toe could be bold, an arch
to perfect the gymnast’s leap in open air.
The cowbird cares only for her own
Read more "Brood Parasite"
propagation. Nest-stealer, child-trader.
A clutch of brown-spotted eggs
sheltered elsewhere. The cowbird
merely uses what others have created.
Others raise her children.
Others feed her young.
If her child stabs a fragile fledging
from the colonized species
with a beak that hungers for more,
this is no injustice. The cowbird is not evil.
Survival is a promise of life, not a tragedy
They say salt
was once so precious
that soldiers were paid in it—a salary.
A common, bitter thing
I add salt’s tear-tang to the dough
and feel my wrist and bicep work
(the ingredients of my life
are not measurable things
though I feel them pulse just out of sight)
now I see the sight I always see
Read more "Ingredients"
out the kitchen window
as I knead and knead and knead
This is to let you know I’m newly funemployed.
Read more "Dear Type-A Friend,"
I’ve grown weary of the restless noise
of earth, so I plan to gadabout the universe
in search of alternatives to humanoids.
Perhaps I’ll terraform an asteroid
and confirm the latest scientific claims
it contains quintillions in gold.
I’ll appoint myself its CEO
and send you a prospectus once
I’ve penciled out investment strategies.
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.
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
danger danger flashing floodlights
Read more "Just Past the Dead End Road"
laying bare my red hawk mind
extracting talons from the skin
of a mangled rabbit or dead horse what
does it matter you stay either way
to watch me tear at the flesh and not cry once no
you won’t see me weep this time no
you don’t own me anymore no
not in the boneyard not in the moonhouse
not in the field where i kill and oh do i
kill yes i do
to write abstractly
it helps to be stoned; so much
so it feels a crutch.
hip haikus, stanza
formatted. notice: no caps!
it must be for real
this feeling of peace
when I stare through the window
at our wild yard.
no lawnmower knows
this field’s overgrown nature.
it is real untamed.
a grasp on the pipe:
Read more "Ohp, uhp, oop … okay"
burned up brain pens bad poem,
he stumbles near the end.