from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014)
(available on Lulu)
duologue
we’ll start here, turtle.
this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.
the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.
I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.
because it is the one word without a beginning
suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.
we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.
this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.
I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term
carpet bombing.
how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn
she is not ahead of?
she has to stop, turtle.
to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.
isochronal character
the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is
is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.
impossible beast
the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014)
(available on Lulu)
duologue
we’ll start here, turtle.
this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.
the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.
I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.
because it is the one word without a beginning
suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.
we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.
this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.
I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term
carpet bombing.
how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn
she is not ahead of?
she has to stop, turtle.
to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.
isochronal character
the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is
is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.
impossible beast
the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.
Request permission to use this poem