stay in their houses and caves,
scratching feverishly at the indelible print
affixed to their torsos,
praying to this god of theirs,
to absolve them of so many sins.

but god has no ears,
no eyes,
nor a mouth.
for these are primitive human afflictions,
affects for us,
who need these
tools to function.

we cannot be condemned to hell,
for we cannot truly comprehend it,
a place of judgement,
for that too is of our own hands.

yet the haunted
know full well
that god is in its personal hell
scratching feverishly at the indelible print.

and then i am left,
at the upmarket stretch of sand
straddling this most unremarkable state,
quietly flicking my thumb against the blue lighter.

but it's too windy, at the water's edge
in an unremarkable state,
where no one recognizes me,
that bagpipes start playing

the wind acts against my fingers,
they are too delicate, too feminine,
no callousness ever affixed to these,
my ten silken extremities.

my
or your only wish
is to embody every last note
utterance and warble
of the aria

to be unencumbered by body,
mind,
to be only spirit.
to be.

to the furthest reaches
to the softly lit closing scene.

the one you've always dreamt of,
that haunts every bone protruding from your form

and it hasn't even happened yet.
and when it does,
you dance, billy elliot graceful in tube socks frayed
across the living room,
maria callas gone shaking the plaster off the walls,

and you're left,
mouth open
eyes too
right closes,
left too.

There are many instances,
those I have not been proud of,
when I have scoured the colonies collecting tiny, ornate cigar boxes
to house the bodies of dead, miniature emperors of the
Imperial realm beneath my floorboards.

Cheap pine does tend to hide many things,
for it is god-like, this Empire.
its beauty: arresting and unearthly.

I discovered it as all great historical finds come to us,
on an unremarkable, and unplanned afternoon.

I felt not unlike an ancestral WASP,
stumbling upon the new world, or at the very least, new to me.
how presumptuous, to think that this great majestic thing beneath my feet is my junior.

Surely, then, I am the discovery,
bringing my primitive ways,
attire, tribe and desires
to the Imperial Court.

From them, I learned secrets,
a pantheon of miniature gods,
and thousands of years worth of minute literature and culture.
all of it in lovely,
resplendant whispers only the miniature can voice.

From me,
they simply learned of our endless,
tireless wars in futility.
From me,
they took ill and died in a quiet,
unassuming plague,
the sickness of our humanity.

We **** beauty,
at all times, and at all places.
We **** what we touch, and hold closest to us,
our bodies made solely of trillions of happy daggers,
primed and sharpened
for the great, sweeping massacre that resides in us all.

when i was ripe. when i was ripe. under your wing.
thirteen and this jacket's too **** big.
the feathers of your wing tickle my childbearing hips.
is it sin because i like it?
or because i cannot bear child?

only in my mind did i birth one.
we called her a name i can't remember.
she was in my care for a week.
and we watched sitcoms and ate macaroni and cheese in little blue bowls.
i wasn't there when she left.

but my childbearing hips were. 

oh. will you make me a bird too?
will you make me a bird too? 


it kind of makes me sick, in the stomach and ovaries.
when you don't look at me while you fly.
you just look down. at my childbearing hips.
that's all.

i just wanted to know if you got your fingers ***** when you tore your baby out of me.

there lie many fishes in the sea. 

that's not a real word, boy. 

TAKE IT BACK!

and my lips as bright as janice's. 

and my cheeks swollen like hers' too. 


oh, this up-do, it just hurts so bad. 

that i wish what i felt could be real. 

that it wouldn't end just when the wig is torn off.
by daddy-gone-bourbon.


and do you want to be a pretty little thang?

OH. 
I'LL MAKE YOU A PURTY LITTLE THANG. 

tear you a NEW one. 

and rip you open 

Like the burlap sack your mama was...

then we'll see how well the aqua net works on your
up.do.



He didn't die for you, boy. 

He didn't die for you. 


clean yourself up, it's your birthday, after all.

and then it puts away the ***** pictures. 

and it settles it's "pretty little self" into bed...
limping.
oh it's legs are so broken. 

its marfan limbs tremble. 


but i can't do nothing no one else done.

i just wanted to know if it was a real word.

No. 1

the swan song came out of her throat at some velocity. 

too quick for child-ears to hear,
in the room with all the toys, upstairs. 


if only you could hear it though. 

the way we taste it. 


and here, in the basement-corner turned sanctum.

do we let out a pagan ******* roar. 

with Mother Veiled-in-Sepia

and she's got her beautiful thirty-year old baby in arm. 

he's so peaceful. even during his sleep. 
even when his words meander your bible belt. 
moving downward. 
and you take them with water and bourbon as your own. 


still, 
we lie still.
fearing any movement will set off deafening alarms. 

oh WHY CAN'T YOU HEAR THEM?

they're SINGING JUST FOR YOU.
i'll help you when they all leave for home. 

get in their cars.
and travel the turnpike. 


we'll put all the leftovers in tupperware. 

clean the dishes. 

sweep the kitchen floor. 


and hum. the swan song. 

hum it til it becomes late. 

then we'll have to belt it out. 


No. 2**

nothing had made me kneel catholic, 

thin-legged on the pad, 

come three years now.
but those weren't my knees.


that, was before the tornado
 passed the toll booth, 

come into the valley. 


I wonder, if it kneels-catholic. 


That,
was at 1:43, 
and the roadster ambled towards America's waistline, 

to my left was a stark yellow of Mother's halo. 

To my right was the austere, wistful glower
of Daddy gone Thunder.

Out of nowhere, 

the roadster goes upwards.

The waistline shrinks and expands, 

Silent scream, 
and then nothing. 

It's 1:43, 
and the butterflies are awake.