i scalped a false ursine prophet, all golden
and colorless, to pour honey
into your wounds, dripping with cold sweat
and natural monosaccharides of glucose. entertain
sweet thoughts in your head (my own were a sickly
yellow). if it doesn't dry, honey won't be too sticky
and your skull's hinges will be quiet.
rust might have been better.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 7:36 PM UTC
one halcyon summer, when
we strung ourselves out on fat couches, wilting
like thirsty, overheated forsythia, one
hundred or more crimson carcases found themselves
turned upside down on my floor. ladybugs discarded
from the designs of nature. i swept them under the bed.
i promise, when you die, i will not flick you out of sight
with a careless index finger (there will be sorrow, outrage, and flowers
picked clean of aphids).
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC
smooth son/sun, you're a holy roller
no fighting hedonism with a cold shoulder
smolder, ignite into a ******
baptism of divine alarm
because fervor is louder than alms
so you could be a rolling ball of burning fingers
kissing and singeing sinners who hinder
what you want to tear asunder
so blunder, reckless in abandon
or you could be no man's son
and everyone's sun and the one's son
father, the world weighs a ton.
our forebears split him with dynamite
nile magic, scattered like stones, own the afterlife
and he's got a son, so bright, light
got a silver dollar and a star studded collar
and the ring of fire, burns more than the rest
stuff them all down inside a god's chest
now the son's got a cold dish
aching for one last wish, match, set, game
vengeance on chaos, and sand in his throat, in his father's name
**** some brother of cain and able
way back when, when seth was still an animal
obsessive compulsive, no demons in the cosmic sieve
demons are angels, in his last breath the son wants to live
but he's got to be some kind of doom
cosmic boom, keep people straight in a narrow room
pretty tunes, ancient runes, weave the world on an almighty loom
while the sun's high, and the son's high, and it's high noon.
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
stick a nickel in your mouth because you like money
melt it down and let it coat your tongue like honey
and you still can't taste food two days later
because you've got a solid metal tongue that can't taste flavor
coin tongue click your teeth for Charon to deliver
and cut your tongue out to pay him to cross the river
when you burned your last nickel in the furnace
it dissolved like the sun as it churned and spit
solar flares lick your eyes because they love you
fire only wants to kiss you like doves do
doves do burn too, feathers like ashes like carbon monoxide
they were plastic so you passed out when they fried
a little molten rubber with a little bubble
and a prize inside, pop it because it's trouble
and supple, with evaporated eyes
no doves just trinkets and magpies
a little bit of gold is the same as mass hypnosis
dove or chicken nuggets or gold nuggets for strong doses
of oxytocin and candy corn, serve them together on halloween to children
because they need thick skin and ritalin
in them to keep them quiet, and so everyone's got a little disquiet
in their stomachs, because we're all high
on coins coins and brightly lit rooms
and when we have to turn the lights off at least turn on the nickel moon
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
i.
was it underneath those algae covered rocks,
whispering, green creatures that delighted in
making a naked foot recoil in a moment of panic,
all the world collapsing into dust, as slime made contact?
was it beneath those stones, where a nickel lay,
a burning sun next to Lincoln's rusted beard, unseen
to our child eyes, looking for what was brightest
amongst a forest of grime and stone?
we dove in with such a fervor, a keening
to collect what was tossed by grandfather’s hands.
it was beneath those rocks that we learned what it was
to search for lost, or never found in the first place, things.
when the lake pressed against our chests, daring us to remain
below the surface, while our lungs begged us for just one
breath of air that was lingering five feet above our bodies
taunting and calling to us in our very nervous system,
we pressed on, fingers scraping desperately for a shiny token
until the void in our lungs flung us back into the bright and sharp world of oxygen.
ii.
i had a blue box with a galloping horse
cubed by an inspired painter. in it was
a gold brooch with stones like dollar bills
all shining and red once i dug it
out of the ground, and when i washed it
there was a chip in metallic paint on plastic
gems. in the box there was an arrowhead that told stories
or committed murders, with a chiseled point. they say of good
sculpting that you can see the artists hands in the piece.
under the horse's calico eye was a lost bead
that might have been a choice pick in a kindergarten class.
iii.
the dust under your bed doesn't make a scene
unless you stir it with a probing broom, little stalks of fingers brushing,
crowded together so that what's found is stolen by some next door bristle.
the vacuum cleaner will only reach so far and leave
an unthinkable spot that can't help but be thought of because
it's the only one left.
iv.
you will miss, the first one thousand times you try
to lasso a horse or a tilting bull that seems to be
yearning to scratch an itch by backflipping. or maybe you will
catch a firefly (you probably will never get that bucking animal,
so aim smaller) just once and look into a phosphorescent
backside, glowing like one million lamps under a full moon
on the Chinatown streets. fireflies keep well (poorly)
in jars with tinfoil hats that are poked with holes to let in the air
or let in the drowning raindrops when you leave the insect,
enshrouded by glass, on a checker-clothed table in your back yard.
fireflies don't have lungs because insects don't, but
you don't know this. so you will wonder if it felt
what you did when your itching fingers scraped rocks,
so green they were almost alive, until you escaped a dimmer
and quieter world and breathed again.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
rezuma, el noche, con el
humedad. una cosa del estomago
del tierra, esto vida,
esto respiracion como el espacio
intermedio las alas de un halcon. me siento
la marga que tiene todo el nocion de la neblina
dentro de su atomos. esto marga tiene mi oreja
y me susurra sobre las raices muy pequeno y
paulatina de la hierba. sobre como en la brea que
llamamos "el noche" o
"la profundidad" es un parte de nosotros
que rezuma, que no nos gusta, y que
mantene lo que somos.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
in an old diving suit, nobody can see your face
and the fish don't know you're human.
someone wondered why you would need a veil
in an ocean, no one would recognize you.
maybe they heard a mumble rise out as spheres of
carbon dioxide; or maybe you took off that
diving mask and said how the ocean is dark
and it is safer to be faceless.
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 4:24 PM UTC
you had this many broken bones
like that time i left for an hour (because
i was learning to work some never fractured fingers
over black and white tabs) and came back
to find you in a chair, clutching your arm
like it was some project of masking tape and tongue depressors,
imitating architecture, as though it might fall apart at
any second. and i wondered what it was
to have my calcium I-beams snap under my skin. was there
a feeling, a radiator that burned against bones
comfortably, when the edges glued themselves back?
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 4:18 PM UTC
you broke your arm last week because you
fell out of a tree, because
you are a ten year old boy. when the bone
cracked you cried and were loud as a howler monkey
when he can't find any fruit to eat. but now
you have your cast on, and you are dangerous and
cool. there is a fire of adventure kindled
in your eye, right? you will tell the story about
how you had to use magazines and rubber bands
to hold your arm in place, before you could get
to the doctor (don't tell them your dad set the makeshift
splint for you. don't tell them how you sobbed
through the entire car ride). you can do anything now,
daredevil. weren't they jealous when Christine cooed over how brave
you are, when you pointed out the branch that you fell from? (they
don't need to know you fell off the lowest branch)
she's your girlfriend now, because you are so brave, but
she will only kiss you on the cheek, because you are a boy.
you are hot **** (you learned to curse when your father
exclaimed a new vocabulary when he saw you fall). don't tell them
you fell out of the tree because you slipped on
some rotten bark, and if they find out? the worms wriggling
inside the dead wood attacked you like a more potent
hydra than the one you learned about in class.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 3:03 PM UTC
his bulbous eyes stared and clamored.
they bulged like cartoon animals do when
a fist throttles them. we hurried past him
because he told us something about nineteen eighty-five
and what if he has a knife in his coat?
the blue and yellow neon lights bathed his face
in commercial light and illuminated
his anguish. he didn't have any money, probably
because those men stole it from him when he was sleeping.
you know the ones he talks about - their suits are always
clean. we hurried past him, and his caffeine eyes
finally went to sleep even though his addled brain
prayed for consciousness. the suits would come to him in the night
and fill him with drugs again.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 2:44 PM UTC