i can write that it’s like a
house, neither here nor
there. when i want to, i can
go inside. i cried all
morning. took a red pill and
went to sleep. it melted in
my mouth. it tasted like
cherries. it tasted like
plastic. it felt like a hospital
bed. it felt like hands.
warm. i keep seeing all
these tiny hands all over
everything. i wash my
hands compulsively when in
new york. a lesson in how
to remember every single
thing you’ve ever touched:
plenty of dirt. every single
doorknob. and scissors.
i think we try to forget. i lay
down and google
symptoms of bipolar
disorder. i realize that i
know nothing about
anything. where do i go
when i go inside. what do
those hands feel like. they
feel warm. they look pink.
the walls are clean. the
fingernails are clear. i can
write that it’s like rainwater
getting on the legs of my
jeans in the shape of a
semicircle. all of a sudden
my legs are too long to be
safe from anything
anymore. the rain, and other
***** things. being pinned in
between the door and the
wall, saying, I’m here, I’m
still here, you’ve got to open
up now so I can get out.
scissors, for people who
are left-handed
and the most dangerous.
she tells me, get clean
before you come here. of
course i am, already. i am
taking up her whole offer,
rattling off my anecdotes,
putting an entire strawberry
in my mouth at once. it feels
hard. like the space when the
dust settles and you’re
spitting up ash that rained
down from the things that
broke. it got in your eyes
and it got in your mouth.
the broken thing is inside
you. the survivors went out
to the garden to get some
fresh air. they’re all
coughing up smoke still.
you’re like a house. that’s
why they came here: to
get safe. there’s a welcome
mat that looks up their skirts.
there’s tools on the kitchen
counter. the furniture is all
from the trash. there’s no paper
anywhere. not a single pen.
to exist in nothingness:
the space in between the
door and the wall.
the empty fridge. the
crater from the doorknob
that comes from the door
flying open, banging against
and singing, honey i’m home.
black bruise turning purple
under your fattest finger
pressing down, hard. a place
to sleep, where you grab and
hold yourself from behind until
your breathing gets slow.
something that’ll be there
in the morning. a promise of
comfort. a single comfort. a
single hope. you know
things like it: the old ice tray.
instant coffee. hand sanitizer.
cheap but good. the door has
got a good lock on it. it
clicks big and it's safe inside.
for now, i’ll just be a house.
neither here nor there. looking
around and saying, it’s ok.
such clean walls. two whole
windows. i’ll be fine to exist
here for a while.

who told you you could? who said you were allowed? when did you first do it, slipped out from under the watchful eye of anyone who would forbid you? or could? what does it sound like when you talk out loud to yourself. in the mirror or looking up or looking out. how does your voice sound different when it reverberates off the walls or pops in the air in the day-time? or bounces off of your reflection and back down your own throat? what does your own name sound like to you? you got something to say. it’s going to come out whether we like it or not. whether you want it to or not. you want it to. 

is it like dinner? warm, and in your mouth? satisfying? is it coming through your body, like the sun coming in and then shining out at the same time? the sun is right there in your mouth. the light is shining through your teeth. like through the cracks in a window, we can all see it. i swear.

is it cold, and wet, on your hands? how fervently are you drying them, back and forth, scraping, palm and back of the hand on your starchy jeans. palm and back of the hand. up and down. first it slides off like droplets and then its coming out in sheets. who knew you could be like God. like thunderstorms from the tips of your fingers. it might just feel wet. "they're wet because i just washed," getting caught at a strange time, like, "they’re clean." "i’m clean, i swear.” You swear.

is it like sleeping with the window open? on top of bed and in and even under? one foot hanging off? both? got the window open, fresh air coming in? for me, it’s trapped between two buildings, not fresh at all. it slips in over the course of the night when it wants to. it is like my lover standing at the top of the staircase. i picture her like this: low white heels. khaki coat. platinum blonde, updo, coiffed. standing on the top stair, dangling one foot back, holding herself like she might turn away and run down and out the door in front of me. like she might turn on her heel and not stay with me tonight, or any night, and then won't call. i’m saying, you can come to bed, you can just go to sleep, we can just lay here and be cool. you don’t have to tease. air in the night-time taunts me now. i hope she got home safe. i wonder. that’s just how it is for me. i just live on the second floor. it’s hot up here.

is it like $20? got it pressed into your hand when you don’t need it? only good for a bit? or maybe you do need it, more than ever, you can’t believe its yours now, and, it’ll be gone soon. you ******. not surprising. unless it’s from your parents and it’s i-dont-need-it-i-dont-i-dont and they know you do so let’s all just not pretend and flatter each other. you can just call it cash. that doesn’t sound too pretty.

tell me what it’s like. that’s what you’re good for. and instilled within you is a certain ever-evident self consciousness. you are intended to constantly to doubt and ponder. why am I here? and, who is listening? and, who cares? why? why? we haven’t even got the time to answer that, there's no time, God, you're stupid, and, this has gotta be quick. why? why, because of urgency! urgency like a hungry wolf. get the words on the page, i’m starving. like a hungry wolf here. he is biting at at the corners and on the spine, he is scary and making fun and loves when you panic. he is biting with teeth and you remember his lips, too. funny. no one ever talks about a dog’s lips. but he’s got them, just like we all do. promise, say i am going to rip any wolf from the page. i am going to de-claw and go at all my metaphors with pliers. forget the wolf, actually. spit all that hair out. pull it off your tongue. take your time. it is not his story to tell. i’d say, to anyone listening, i’m doing this for you. twist and twist and tighten and, now, look at that. look at what my hands could do. crazy. i taught myself, i would tell them, if they asked. just to impress them. because i care. make them listen. is it about someone else, now? am i going to make it about and for someone that isn't me? can i trust them?  are they just sitting on my chin with one ear pressed up to my mouth, just for now, keeping me around in case i got something useful to say? i'd probably trust them even if that were the case. i'd trust them even if they were doing it just to make me feel good.

when someone is listening, what do you tell them? what do they need to hear? did they need it? and, did they know they needed it? yes, yes, yes, yes. when you got someone sitting down and quiet and you swear you’re so important, they need it. they’re about to find out.

it’s always red conversation
swirling down the telephone cord
through my lips like a twizzler
& in my mouth like candy
& slurrrrrp,

hello hello it’s us again,

remember us? we love you here
& how could you ever leave home? nowhere else
has walls this clean

and he would call. he will.
sirens blinking red thru
the window and his face so warm.
he says, I’m just realizing now
how many people there are, and,
i’ve been looking through my neighbor’s window, and,
that room always glowing,
they leave their tv on.

he is the shirt that stains everything red in the wash,
and i can’t seem to find the problem.
I'm saying to myself, which one of these is red?
where did all this blood come from?

when you say you are whole, you mean this:
whispering good-morning and good-night into both hands cupped
and a tiny bird’s heart in your palms, humming

you are pointing at the ceiling,
smiling, looking forward, teeth that are chipped jealous
of the tile floor that can easily be wiped clean-white again,
shining, and square  

i am mostly cracked-eggshell with the yolk slipping out the side
and rolling down palms, making fingers webbed and stuck together,
what i mean is this: i am Messy
stained bedroom and sock fibers getting caught on the linoleum, stuck

gold-capped tooth like a sewer
gritty, keeps the dirt from going down
brown-stained lips and teeth and tongue to match
kissing the floor
wet, and unapologetic
like the loud truck that woke me up yesterday morning
and today
because i thought the world was ending
but it was just a Man cleaning the streets

a poem is built from the ground up. you start with the last line and say, here, i will plant you. and you will grow and i will be your mother. how great does it feel to be able to make whole things, to be able to take them back inside you at any moment. when they are acting up, to say, silly child, don’t think I can’t undo this. and then you let the poem grow. the last line is the seeds and they are snug rooted in a bed of sureness and clarity. a poem is urgent. a poem feels like having *** with myself, because afterwards I am tired and feel like I did something. And I am the Mother, and so am I, on my hands and knees doing ***** work and looking feminine. And me and her are going to raise a family together. All the things I create are going to be in my likeness and my girls will have pink lips round like quarters and my boys will always treat girls right and they will never have a daddy to look like or to miss. And I will say I love you, poems, and they will say, I love you, too, Mother and Mother and Mother and we will be happy.