Proof zebra, or it doesn't matter.
Angel was a wraith, swathed in cheap sheets/ smell rotting, lawnmower. All these commas are ankle biting dogs. Beware the fog lights of the murderous parrots who know too much. I mean, yeah, I know
I am a whole person under the counter with clinking keys, a whole giving person with knees and oakbark hair. And, yes, I give really good head, and yes, I speak well, if a little through my nose, only slipping back to the ****** slang when I'm tired or *****/ and the stars pinched into vertebrae reverberate solidly, compelling an escape into untrue arms, because, why not -
if I'm scarlet and all I see is panfried fish on soft bread paper plated on a banquet table, what's to stop me from asking for a quick whipping back into place?
Nothing, this is all confessional. I'm only sick of paving these roads, I admit to the monster (only me, only _ monstrosity)// I chew liquid from wax bottles; red for the city slicker, blue for the midwesterner, orange for the cowboy, green for the alien, yellow for the gold medal winner eating the food I cook.

great whale bone gazebo
calling for a
mild december,         lit by
hundreds     of flashlights;
only they're
bioluminescent insects
encased in thin calcite ---

christ luster
becomes
you silicate
[film star]

if none of this makes sense blame the monkey eating rolls of antacids. its so absurd its a little disgusting, (poem) lodged under the arm of a jester standing on the only summer road. my father took my mother there. i didn't know what a jester was, belly space flat as a card. it asked if i wanted to have an ******: i said only in the bathtub, so we ordered takeout and bought a shotgun for the next mornings marathon of pheasant. the bathtub was shaped like a seashell, and that was fine; that would look better in the movie, wouldnt it?

This is a low budget film. All I can tell you -
The protagonist is a woman in blue shorts.
Maybe you should call her a girl. Sunday
service on the radio. A dog trots alongside
the drivers door. Her door, her four door
car. A two mile stretch of highway lies to
the camera, reaches its fingers to the ending credits like reaching up a skirt.
Her dog. Her sunset oils up the sticky seats.

Conception was floral. First taste like chicken livers.
1. Born under some pretty impressive architecture.
2. My sister was a princess before a teaspoon.
3. Mom met a man at the deli counter, moved us into his record player.
4. A pinata in the closet with patterned baldness. My step brother devised a way to extract all of my baby teeth at one time.
5. Rob turned into a storm chaser and drove me out to a hill above the race tracks to see the spaceship clouds swirl. Reminded me of a hand mixer.
6. I fell getting out of the bathtub. I fell off the front porch and cut an opening between my legs.
7. I learned what condoms were.
8. Up north. Up north. Up north, like a chant. Dune buggy accident.
9. Another east side house, my first cigarette with an older cousin. My coat was purple and we had giant jawbreakers.
10. I played basketball and watched walker, texas ranger, wore blue yarn in my hair. I had cat named after a gremlin.
11. I can't remember.
12. I can't remember.
13. I started my period and kept it from my mother. That was the start of that.
14. I fell in love with a blonde ponytail. She talked easily about her boyfriend. We made plans to spend our lives together.
15. I began painting on disassembled cardboard boxes. My mothers boyfriend gave me smokes.
16. High.
17. High. My best friend went to jail. Every tuesday I brought her bubble gum and a new pair of *******.
18. They let me be a secretary. I sounded like roasted almonds and yogurt.
19. "What can I do to make more money?". I had a number of boyfriends, pheasant and an apple orchard. I sold ****. I painted houses.
20. I met an empty suit of armor fishing under an overpass. We spent the day finding cassette tapes for my red corvette sculpture.
21. My current boyfriend thinks less of me for not being him, zipties shut my makeup bag, nails pictures of christ to the wainscoting.
22. Coal, cold. I write poems on fast food napkins and throw them away. He's convinced I have a parasite: says I need to stop losing weight. I say shh, I need to go christmas shopping.

i built a tent at
three a.m with
a man named
after a singularity

in the tent we
put a torch i am
still reeling over
the loss of my dog
my dream catcher so

who am i to say no
if you say yes i
add zeros in my
head i siesta
at your glass
mountain i eat
oranges like
they're air you

square up the
universe and
stick it under
my tongue you
ask for detailed
accounts of
my previous ***** and
in the meantime

i will balance work with
fire drills with my
boyfriend asking
questions with starring

in your dystopia

Recreation, re-creation and a
lease on lite harbor: O' sanity.


Suit of armor, don't give me drugs.
Give me an excuse for habitual
exhaustion.


My personality is too
seasonal/I
Believe in
the God of good dogs..!


go

                     fetch me something.

lay at my feet and watch me eat it
without tasting much of anything

at all.

Awareness appeared like a virus
cutely attached to my brain stem.

I am a terrible person. I say
misgivings  like u wld say
thanksgiving and I speak
it aloud to those gathered @
the Table // The Table touched
by each person I've hurt & [yet]
they are cool with me //

This is the bluest I've ever been.

such a see through grief. pair of ******* left strangled at my feet,
off your radar. i kick at

them. i can see in my mind a
symbolic tree, a chalky lizard.

symbolic: the space
cruiser of phantasm

lick your lips, laminate animal.
watch me survive in the wild.
watch me craft a snare out of lamplight.

How perfect the hand of luck
with its rubber bracelets     &
smiley face thumbnail. And U -

how perfect are you, hanging
out under my houseplants???

Heythere lake humongous.
These thunderheads make me feel
soo midwestern.
Just (simile) the bruis-eyed poet,
skinny in a paint hardened shirt,
backlit by the lamp-shine off dark wood.
Maybe a broken radio in the foreground.
Maybe a wife on Facebook.
Maybe some kid crying out
"I stepped on a ga'**** picker bush!"

NM, 1960s.
Red skirt in
January.
Cigar in one hand,
land deed
in the other.
She turned
masculine
near the family plot,
used her father's
skull like a
grinding stone.

Taffy pull on a milk jug face. Maybe you are ****, maybe I'm a clown learning to dogpaddle. You lifted my car keys using telekinesis, vacuumed the interior. I was sorting scrap for my steel messiah statue when you asked to borrow the last shred of virginity I was saving for my dead fiancee. Sure, start the sounding gun; parquet flooring is embarrassed to touch our bare feet. Yesterday I found out sis was almost given to a family from big white. Mom seemed ashamed that she nearly lost the most beautiful thing she'd ever slapped. Not sure I understood, I was ******* on a soldering iron. I think he'll be nine feet tall, carrying poinsettias and a letter to the local congressman. He might be a she, but I doubt it at this point. A trendy recipe for frozen pumpkin lattes is on the fridge, looking happy about being written. Who put it there? My risk taker with blistered hands, waiting on a client in the sweltering veg room, the microwave desert. This morning you gave my neighbors the copper I was going to use for his hair. It's okay. I think he's a she anyway, and she doesn't look like she cares.

I needed a new job so I got one. If only I were
a master manipulator, I'd have a million catchphrases and a walking stick.
At dawn my friend brought me a magic radio that made all of my worries go away.
I tuned it just right and caught a station out of detroit.
Twin foil balloons float in the backseat of my car, something worse than limbo.
I dribbled a beautiful skull yesterday and jammed my finger -
then I wanted to
visit the scene of the plane crash to look for my mood ring, for the remains of the vestment he
kept folded in his back pocket.

the unease
of walking into a room suffering
from stillness
and every move you make
leaves a pocket of your life
behind -

Swallow and go. Something I can do, like pace myself or *******. You ask me what I write about. I say
famous people, and discrepancies.
Simulate applying mascara. Stainless steel reflections play tennis better than I ever could. [Yesterday] I read something that intibated me,
preformed a lobotomy without a drill.
I had a dream that I forgot my work shirt at a friends house and ran through downtown bare chested to see it serve as a shroud for the most recent saginaw st ******.
At the bottom of a heartbeat you explain the grandfather paradox to me. Why wouldn't I go back and shoot the man who ***** my mother? I could have been a time capsule; could have been a light saber,
could have been a different poet who wears a lot of tank tops but calls them camisoles. Late at night my
boyfriend is more treasure chest than in the afternoon, his drunk, swollen face hooked and dark like his indian mothers.
I tell him I am unfaithful every day at three, in the afternoon when he visits the crows nest to regurgitate tequila and recyclable fibers. I wear camisoles that I call tank tops; let some neighbor feel me up over a periwinkle floral pattern when I was trying to change my life. We then shared an avocado sandwich and
peddled the fattest grams on the east side.

The second before the sky falls I'll tell you about my secrets;

Why I've avoided campgrounds since 1997.
Why I pray to the God of mangy dogs -
Tendon ******* fad. Don't touch my dolls.

Tombstones, and the tombstone maker across the street.

What a shame! Even (mouth thick with honey) the poetry, tarr'd n feathered, pimped out, holstered to the inside thigh - Promiscuity as a promise, the clouds fil and zzz leet ::: sleep, sleet. Only if I'm paid. Bruise shaped acorn on my shoulder, I hide out in my car, in the cold. Hello solder, hand me a high 5! And it turns into 7, which turns into 9, which turns into night. There is no shame in words, in swallowing tiny torches and blacking out ochre eyes - say, sleepy head - If anything this [poem] is a fragment of some whole puzzle-u, a wannabe winsome trove of squiggly lines.

will you be with me
when the sun rises?

will you be the sun?

self depreciation all day.
on the other end of the
spectrum (of my self-centeredness)
i have been stopped by people
who have nothing more to say
than

you're beautiful.

hell-o, cloud cover-ing my
embarrassment. this vessel,
hovercraft named LonelyCrusin'
is here to pick up my mania, my
loveliness.

strangers left with a beautiful ****;
not a beautiful person but

an avoidable disaster. my little soul,
the hedonist. blanket the word
solipsism —

4†, superhero. i am not
my name + technology; i
am not my face + a mouth
full of *****.

maybe i am. i don't care.

you will come to my house, already
boiling (your arousal
smells like herbal tea)

and i will be in the tub
with music on loud. i
will ignore you until i dissolve
into the weak solution i am.

† the act in which i
refuse yet
again the
image of another. give
myself to myself and only i can lose.

-   At the liquor store
dense with nocturne.


My hair smells of domestic expense. I can feel the geography of my face burn when the man behind me tells his friend how far he'd stick his tongue up my ***. I leave without buying anything. Outside the air is thickening: the atmosphere hardens itself into a dome. Not even the thunderheads can hide my embarrassment. Under the dark sky my truck looks like a rusted pupa, ready to burst from its oxide swaddling. I pass more liquor stores but I am distracted. The moon is absent. My wholesomeness is bothered by voyeurism but my vileness gets off on it. Once home I notice the neighbors have cut their lawns and it is imposing. I admit my faults. I become needy too often - and weak the moment I see another insect cacooned in my driveway. There is shame in standing silently against torment so I kneel and confess my vileness. I beg my visitor to take me harder than he thinks I can bear.

I can't tell the truth from the pile
of airplanes in my backyard.

You have (so far) protected me from my worst fears (aliens/father).
You drew a clockface around one of
my *******,
and said clocks like clox, box like bocks.
I call you honest ape, because you
art evolution.
In last light I pulled down my undersea
and said lets dig offshore for oil.
We are grand and novel and full of ****;

me with advertising across my ***,
you with your baby blue stick shift.

ok chokehold.

i wish to go camping and build
my fire under your crows wing
attitude. i wish to have children
and hide them away from dust
in the cleanest vases. i wish to
explain to you the circumferential
crappiness, the why you will not
take me seriously on any other
than a rainy day. throwing is like
reverse grabbing, reverse grabbing
the chandelier. every word we
speak is crossing a line. a line that
is only my line, a line you never
knew existed. it is red. it is colored
somewhere
i want to be. it is the burgundy
of your mouth bending w/ speech,
it is the donation of O neg and
the blistered heels of your feet
stomping on my heart through
my vest of sequins. no, not stop
ing. morse code on my 3D love
poem, don't ya know?

coffee is done, suit is irony and my
jeans are cut into my favorite story
about a man
and a woman
and the lake they drained
when they became thirsty.

Saxophone and well water,
buried mother alive.     Hey
that's my birthday.
Father hunts aquamarine -   and  of
all the words I have to choose from
I only say  ok
December ok teetertotter ok

the spleen isn't a crown royal bag full of
golden
dollars.
so burn time at the races.
wear a feather, or a horn.
ghost likes men who fish on tv.
same men win the lottery in an office pool.
wearing a green divers watch,
he is iron city in april.
told me to cut out my tongue,
if at all
i could.

Who else has noticed my house devoid of spiders?

Not you, the canteen from which I wish to sip. Puppet show at sunset,
I hope I’ll see you there, leaking something I can catch in a cup.
Just kidding, water fountain.
Fatigue isn’t ****, is it? I am so thirsty.
When you enter the scene I see something clean for me to drink.
I see myself holding my mouth over you and ******* for dear life.

Found a raw egg under my bed when I had scarlet fever.
A pyramid
when I started experimenting with benzodiazepines.
Tacking felt.
Combustion.
What ever happened to the girl with the bedazzled caul?
The poker pro,
the man who does my taxes?
All three have claim to the acerage-
the former beet farm,
the scene of many sacrifices

I am not speaking this to anyone,
new love folding me like a towel.
****** satire salivating
and the shoulders that support my idolatry –
I would totally crimp my hair and study explosives.
This is called a crush.
Let’s drown it in the kitchen sink.

Now fascinated.
This isn't really a marooned-casual, one man island, bro I'm doing fine kind of thing. (Sounds like a job, not like ~art. I tell myself stuff as if it matters.)
I chose this lonely house with the rotting fascia. I send my boyfriend information about cryopreservation, hoping to one day hoard his savagery in a deepfreezer emblazoned with scenes from the trail of tears,
so don't get me started on dysfunction. Sort of fascinated with the itsy bitsy spider, with the painted rectangle, with the street walkers and their cellulite visible from the turning lane. My ***** bullet braining radio waves and squeaking a little - it
isn't like it's warm until you step into someone's house, the carpet orange and paneling boxing up misfortune -
it's cold,
it's raining forty nine degrees of october.

Helllo God of digital things.

I have a picture of my *****
and a list of people who have touched me there.

It was the birthday calender.
It was the mean text.

But it was the birthday calender first,
tacked to the wall and dense with
the names of people I didn't recognize.

Larry something or other, Jessica (scribble), Monte the alien. So real and
so grandstand -
the year is congested with people.
Existence is chock-full of experience,
all scrambled eggs.

And then it was the mean text.
I know my relationship is falling apart,
I read futures
in overturned bowls of breakfast.
At twenty three all I want is to be
self sufficient and loved. So
I let the buried dragon coin me trinket.

So I

payed for his auto insurance. So I
almost bought him a house. So I
dealt with veiled abuse -
veiled, the phony ****** bride.

I want to cook breakfast for nice people
on planet tried and failed.

This mesa, torn from error.

Somebody knocks and I am busy reading from the newspaper hoard.

Somebody knocks and says they've found a joke. They're now irresistible.

I know its true.

I have company and a shrimp grey sweater, so I send them my boyfriends business card.

One man appreciates my ratio, finds triangles everywhere.

Or prisms or/ whatever happens you're still my sundial, right?

In the kitchen debunking my ghost problem, I forget how to braise backstraps; soak medallions in vinegar.

She is shiny in my living room, posing, asks if she looks like a princess.

I say yes, you look just like annie oakley.

A city wide abandonment project took place about ten years ago.
Since then there has been flower
wars; river water,  potholes.
A gang for every day of the week
infiltrated
by young women  in plastic ponchos
pretending to be deep      pretending
to be leftwing car salesmen
buried    in the middle
of the   abandoned stadium.

It looks like I'll never get my hands on those obliques. He walked out of my sights and into a steel press; I have had dreams straddling a lathe, ******* with anything I could find because my hands were borrowed late at night by a phony jesus. I wish, ultimately, that I was still a waitress living in a tiny trailer with two toy poodles; nails hot pink, bathtub shrine to flame, a psuedo dictator/drug lord. I could have touched him then, then nobody held my fingers to the slider, to the faucet. Better, though, to do better. A block of ice for my heat, and fiction. He wrote fiction. A sensible person would understand when I say shipwreck, my bled, my bed. Like wakoski-*** obsessed; shoulders and ribs instead of leather boots, mustaches. What nonfiction breadth, and seams. My teeth have ridges, says any spelunker thinking of oral. Its scary when disease settles in. Thats scary, making me sliver next to this scenic route, this ship-width. I'm sure I won't remember him tomorrow.

Seven crows eating road ****, backdrop a rest stop. This is either a nightmare or my drive to work. And then there's cold glass and yellow latency, the heat turned up.
And just kidding, it isn't hidden - it's in my hair, the giant suckerfish, arranged like a headband - it's sick, this sizzlepop bad dream. Kind of sick. But really, just kidding, like the clown wearing a bowtie and selling catatonia down at the morbid sequin.

Let's go, indigo... This is your slip up.
Hacksaw twin. Lumber jack. I resort
to name calling when I am overworked.

So what? You compare me to the  
gun you left in a public restroom
and I part the curtains
enough for you to see the ritual.

Ya know, the one with the crawfish
and blood root - the one where I have
a young Elvis Presley and
a middle aged John Wayne

and I touch them both obsessively
and I burn the flesh of a cactus
and I am dressed in plum colored
velour tighter than skin.

Look, kid.

These things are real.
The white noise, the favorite peacock,
the heavy ashtray,
the sepulcher holding my child -
the crucifix thrown, the plastic
soldiers under my toes, the belt
that thickened my eyelids Shut - crybaby
memory, but this is it. Ritualistic, & a
guy wants to drown himself between
the river banks of razor burn?
Lord, help me.

If you talk through the end
of another movie
you aren't getting laid.

_
chartreuse is a bad color for [wit and charm]
crotchless *******. in the motel 6    
a cowboys vein blows out half of the candles.

my favorite word these days is cenote
being obsessed with an opening ;
with the men
who told me to reach ******* deep
inside myself and passed around
a gun, heavy like a femur, like a bible.

You should write novels.

I have a walkie-talkie, and a bluegill
in my pocket, waiting for the apocalypse.

I am certain,       anyway,
that you will bring me flowers, flowers

that I will arrange in milk.

easier said than done. run the rain into my mouth, radio bugs, emits light, like heaven or a dashboard. nobody knows the white dismal, the slim stem calling metal frugal. every flower that seeds, every allergy season i wear the map to your place inside my cheek. it sounds like a mad hornet, like radio talk shows. more like talk showz. outfitted in taffeta, sequined up road rage with a pretty caliber, frosted lips. fuzzy with static, water levels are topic, as are flying ants, time travel. my big brother is a warning of parallels. slimy suit, slick hair; the gunshot is a warning with flair.

The perfect ending is to die for. Rough face lit by lava lamp, beer soaked rug. I read the part I wrote for you. You fell in love with yourself.

my how everything changes
so slick like
one minute
I'm admiring the thickness of
your tongue under a
green shaded desk lamp

and then the power is out
and the fire is talking ****
and roads split open
and miniature elephants
crawl up
screaming like orange juice

and the next minute
I'm knotted in our plastic tablecloth
splattered with red & blue fireworks
and then I'm trying to
find pluto in a gumball machine.

And there's the problem.
Someone should have shown you how to train the bears, how to read upside down from the handbook of poison sumac. Its hurts the surname, tattooing dramas across a narrow plane, wormholing and fumbling through to the salutation;

- man mentions his wife to the group of iced tea sipping women eyeing him
like roasted bird and I smile

- ******* on pinecones no
we all like to appear smart

- at the end of the world

- i know i'll see to it personally
that you have all the  rosaries
buried with the remains

- in the trunk of a plymouth satellite

raven. daughter. my mother cries. bic lighter on a plastic tablecloth. the colors don’t matter. none of this is her fault. magic. mother. the screen door screams. my mother cries. she’s not wrong. she doesn’t read my poems.

so that's how you do it?

yes.

this is me lying in the middle
of a road,

waiting for his headlights
to erupt with effervescence.
i bet he's great at casting
shadows in high definition.

weird, i know.

this,
my latest concussion,
rings like drowning.

i was a city boy b4 i was her.
i was a butterfly b4 there was a
warning sign.

this,

this precision, like that
word for wet earth smell
i hate.

don't say it, we're empty.
don't say it, let's talk about
your ****.

this is not
how the body withers on the vine.

talk about exonerating the body.
talk about abusing the body w/
electricity and sterling obituaries.

so this is how the body tells time?
asks the
alien of fortitude.

yes.

it plays euchre with dark haired men;
it turns seconds into months
revolving around
the mind bending neverness
that the body avoids at all costs.

it turns love into a stew of rabbit
and radish and dandelion stems.
the body turns stretch marks into
fishing nets, it
curls its own fingers inward
under the rib to feign being held.

so that's how you do it?*
asks the
alien of fortitude.

yes. you lay

your body in the middle of the
road and you pray like hell
it's the tall suit of armor that runs
you over, and
you pray that he recognizes you;

you pray that his glass of water
isn't empty yet.

Learn to have no body. Lap up his anima.
Be a waxy comb of honey spiced w/ chiles
& taken with opiates.

OK corrosion. Reconstitute with holy water. 
Education:
Sawdust on the concrete or backseat oral
or sporting shiny badge over left breast.

What have I but a constant state of ketosis
[[[he says he sighs & he
sits on a steel horse
making spit ***** out of
my paper mache eden]]]

hermetic symbols when I closed my eyes,
the days that I was starving.
Learn to have no body and there is
room for only two appetites :
****** and then constructive.

featured galactic and viscous
all at once.
amphibian in a jar with no
water turns
tacky before it - dries -
so                                what - up

what is it if not taffy, if it's not
my hands-on approach
that ended us on the other side
of this universe dam, thinking
my nu luminescent feathers
could beacon our ride home ---

etcetera is like the alien frog.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
met a motivational speaker in a velour tracksuit.
all his girlfriends had spanish names.
bubble gum smell, the vault is on fire
where
i found the hardlands magician where
i made out with my rearview mirror.

you could harness the energy of a tragedy in hot water. roadside stand sells a dozen kinds of honey.
yellow, **** yellow, pink, ****** **** pink.
sad situation when the bees become extinct, become helium balloons at birthday parties.
done like the cockatoo that belonged to the woman who wants to tan until her skin is the same color as her ******* in a white shirt.
the thing dropped dead and she used him as a mantle piece for a few days.
we told company he belonged to an ex and that she poisoned him with arsenic.
a glamorous lie, almost like the colors we pull from our mouths, imitating circus clowns.
at home i always have a fever and a boyfriend that wants to feel it. he turns me into a hypochondriac.
i get a call from the hospital every day now, keeping me updated on my siamese twin.
they say he won't rest until he gets those patent leather peep toes from the closet and a tattoo of my childhood nickname.

Everyday people convince themselves not to leave their boyfriends. Their jobs. Next time I vote I will tape my mouth shut and never let you anvil
against me. Never will we dance on glassware. Sugar rims. 7-up can kidnapped my sister, or tried to. Holed her up in a quick stop. I show off my eidetic memory,
not as impressive as that guy who could name all the presidents backwards, and then spout out facts.
I was impressed by that, like the horizontal apple tree somehow growing in the woods of grand marais.

I used to think everything meant something. Now I know the aorta can burst and mean nothing. Genius on silver-blue sand stars in **** ****, the feather bustier and nylon dreamlike; unafraid, my sister put chilis in her sweet tea. Finally back to the dingy sectional and I should be flipping out. I have a box of cigars from my old boss. Like me, he can't figure out what to write in the card. Like me he lies. I was dropped on my head a few times, I laugh. We are haunted. We're both boys playing baseball, but I kept trying to touch the basemen. Genius, abducted by bluegrey shellfish. I used geletin for the cytoplasm; cell splitting is easy, says my pregnant sister. Almost done, I can hear the radiator leaking if I try. I had my head in the lap of a new outlaw, reciting what I could remember of cummings buffalo bill tragedy. There was a gun under the seat and it was blue. The box of cigars was blue too.