we are the children

the underground

we are not your leftovers spat out in a tipsy of dust and bumblebees

i look to you and the birds fly out of our mouth

going ahead of the train and georgia willows to think, “this is the way the world ends.”

and i repeat

and weak

and speak

“this is the way the world ends. this is the way the world ends.”

how do i know?

when i wake up in the morning
and try to spell God first thing
and the only thing to look forward to
is Him giving me something else to dream about
and heading back to  bed.

when i see it
i think of iris not quite bleached like dali
instead brushed with pink and old jeans
there are more than eighty
that cure your bones and broken skin

in your head, anusara and succulents and a pocketknife
and between your mother and
bedroom conversations about God and shooting up
i've seen two things

i'm not good at math

and

you are good at everything else

my thoughts?
be gentle
you are dealing with parts you've been at war with for so long

even before me

before blood in a heart

or in the bathroom sink

and tracing constillations on Eve’s palm in the cool of the evening

breathing life into dust

He’s crazy about me.

i-
forbidden thought, i guess

i mean

everyone wants to die as if they were falling asleep
why do you think i love the blue in the bottle?

in the cool of the evening, He tells her about before
before before before
with Them
and the dark

she does not understand completely
(existing in one space is difficult enough)
though she listens and thinks that it must be like dreaming

they need sleep, she and the ribcage man
though-

she bites her lip
and wonders why
He never tells her His dreams

in the cool of the evening, He told her,
"there's an art to being still."
(she and the ribcage man choke on apple seeds and venom)

she guesses she didn't learn it soon enough.

"don't ever leave me."
she is small
and new
and can feel the sun on both sides when He smiles and traces constellations on her palm
and the wish is not selfish

not yet.

christopher is candy awful
we live off sunlight and chocolate bars
an evening -no- yes?
an evening of extravagant delight
as plush as his top hat and my velvet ribbon around my throat
maybe

maybe not.

like emily, i felt a funeral in my brain
cerebellum hinged on blue and tea with too much creamer
it's a prison
and nobody likes to visit

except her and that black chariot
with the man who is so kind to us both

and the band
blurry with my michaelangelo eyes

purple dye, Socrates, and backaches  
find yourself
and not the boy.

i sleep but my heart-
we can't.

my sister.
my bride.

i don't need shoes to follow
17
blood and bare feet

my sister.
my bride.

guilt says it'll taste of
blackberry thorns
and  

sugar

catherine is in blue
and bandages her finger with grass and a feather
her mother is sure she took on grace whilst in the womb
who is first and and yet an afterthought?
catherine is bleached
between girls breathing rococo and the washing machine that doesn’t distinguish the separation of her name or fabric
ever maid
where does she go and you begin?
that brother has the ocean compressed in his eyes
and it’s the ships that go by in the night
that make her as penitent as the Magdalene
catherine is moving
and if she takes on the sun it’s best to leave some in Catalonia
if she carves herself in flesh
she should do so herself

i dreamt of a boy
thistles with pickles and ice cream
one pale thing by the name of Sublunar 96B
he told me his mother tasted of cheese
i spat him out
donkey teeth
with a stuck jawbone
ladies and gentlemen, these are my hands
my knees

i cut out his eye for his exchange for a kind of affection
adam and eve kind
supposed roses and lightening between my legs
it doesn't exist for Paul and I
instead i take the color of his iris and make use of his holding carnal expectation and assumption
paint his pupil color for my bedpost
on thursdays i hang the little oculus around my neck
and at night put it in the back of the cupboard

his mother thanks me for it
puts a bit of moonlight
hypodermic in squiggling veins
in the morning we wear each other's face

little thing
i'm the river between the two of you
petit salope
petit prevert
you're moody and i'm your shadow
in between two pairs of arms
and legs

with Apollo forgotten and filtered through
dangling leaves of willows and waterlogged flowers
bunches of peonies and rosemary
some red in there too (all the better for the boy's deed)
she floats on water
and cannot remember how to feel the sun
or how to be tender
with this much blood in her mouth

mother
what gave you the right to bring these bald faced women to my christening?
harpies are a habit
and not a great one at that
even with the mad girl calling my name
pulling off the sticky pearls as i sink further down into the floorboard
underneath curtains
i gave it a blue hat
you know, the one with the parrot and no eyelids?
black shrouded with stars imploding and retreating to the beat of your heart in utero
baby's breath fogs my eyes
and you run your hands over your swollen womb and pretend not to think you are Mary
placing a wafer and rosary underneath your tongue
whilst the body of eventual ashes and milk from your breast
gums and trust on your areola
unabashedly plays John
and kicks your kidney at the sound of the first hymn

in your town, your not town, God is like the dust that cakes your shoes and socks and feet no matter how many times you wash them on Sundays.
he gets caught in your eyelash and keeps your heartbeat in a broken pocket watch filled with cotton
you hear someone calling your name. the pocket watch ticks and you rub the dirt further into your eye.
you do not answer.

the corn in the northern portion of the field has died.
it died yesterday too.
your town does not sell corn.

your friend is the only one not to stare at you when you walk into the diner.
she orders you sweet tea.
it tastes like lemon and salt.
you do not look into your glass when you drink it.
no one does.

your neighbors bake pie and the scent travels down to your house. when you ride your bike down the road, they smile and wave.
they have crooked teeth and glassy eyes.
you don’t like their smiles.
you don’t like them.
you don’t even know them.
you smile and wave back.

on summer nights, all nights, you can hear the sounds of fiddles and tambourines, rustling among willow trees and fireflies.
your dog gives a growl and thumps his tail.
when the moon is out, you fight the urge to follow the sound into the forest.

with the rising of the sun behind your eyelids
you hope to catch the bird
and open your chest, your ribcage
make a nest of your blood and sinew
the dull ticking of your clock-heart singing him to sleep

he catches your dreams and eats them
those worms

instead, you slept in late.

body
lightweight flesh stretched over bones young enough to be
mine
she says, “I’m not asking you to believe in me.
but
silver-haired daddy’s got it confused
i’m not persephone.”
talk can be dangerous and  tape it across my
mouth
“these things you need to do
i never asked you how.”
line me up in single file
with all your grievances
still
i can taste you still
alive
below the waves
something tragic in your stars and charts and maps and
       destiny
black dog coming back when you
open up
for the rest of the world to breathe
i think i can see
“I’m not asking you to believe in me.
but
silver-haired daddy’s got it confused
i’m not persephone.”
but if you need time
sometimes i think
if we take some time
i won’t mind
down the river your friend names
after me
i don’t hold onto the tales of your kind
line me up in single file
with all your grievances
still
i can taste you still
alive
below the waves

calling for myself  in the corners of the world
i know she’s playing poker with the rest of the stragglers
pale kind
i know she’s playing poker with the rest
the rest
how many fates turn around in the other time
bag in the ulcer field
dreams that you’ll never find
you thought that you were the ****** one
WELL SO DID I
SAY YOU DON’T WANT IT
SAY YOU DON’T WANT IT
SAY YOU DON’T WANT IT
AGAIN AND AGAIN And again and again and

she says, “I’m not asking you to believe in me.
but
silver-haired daddy’s got it confused
i’m not persephone.”
talk can be dangerous and  tape it across my
mouth
“these things you need to do
i never asked you how.”

i know we’re falling and there’s no sign of getting through
in your heart i feel the west
and it’s dying too

I think they understand squat
In your ear
The colossus is growing
Split at your feet like a ripe fruit
Concave flesh
Clock starts—flesh, bone
Nothing there

Mundane space between the knife and thumb
“What a thrill,” you tell to me, “My thumb instead of an onion.”
Thrill indeed
Your father instead of the world
Swallow black—whole oceans in your throat
Swimming back to Daddy

You did it again and I say it’s
Coming back again
Back again
Again

Lilac nurse in a prom dress
Tinged in grey and Cambridge sweaters
Brushing the sun
Teddy makes you laugh eventually
Say you know what you want
He said you were the real thing
So learn

I can taste you alive
I’m underneath the floorboards
Ibuprofen
Blue tinged with your bandages
Christ takes His time to raise me back
The black dog
3 years
Still digging even when

You and I cross the sky and I cross my heart and I cross my legs oh my
God
Bit your pretty red heart in two

My first love writes about you
In her bell jar
Only a fragment in a humming of
New York and electricity

I’m crazy about electrocutions
Wiring on the brain going
Overdrive
Burning cerebellum smelling of sweet cigarette smoke and
Betrayal

Richard found a suitcase in your room
Got big bird on the fishing line
A bit of a shout
Bit of a start
Bit of an angry snarl
“He’s my favorite ****** of the whole bunch.”

And we know about his only bride
And the Russians die on the way out
Electric red is dangerous
Tape across the mouth
Smoke coming from a socket

Wear the hat, honey
Tinged with Siberia and America’s headache
With nine inch nails and little
Fascist *******
Tucked inside the heart of everyone
Like you
But only to accessorize

What a rush
Up into the passageway of American fame
I can’t think of any other means to get by
Neither can my Elizabeth

Everyone knows I’m her friend
Everyone knows I’m her man

Bring your sister
Wives
Daughters
If you think you can handle it
Tommy likes the way she holds him
Makes you crawl—dollar bill beggar

And is it true
That the devil ends up like this?
Make something safe for the picture frame
A kick of diamond septum
Fizzy bullet in the brain

She’s your *******
Got your Stepford’s skating the edge
Of something sweeter than domesticity
Cities gotta give
Let in a little bite
Hot
Wind

Cut it again.

Abigail’s a pretty one
Even with dead rye on the brain
Scurrying under couches
The foot is dead

February’s heavy and ours victory a *****
As much mine as she is yours
Squeeze into my dress
Pale sky and grey skin is hard to scrub out
Squeeze into my dress
And become a human being
There’s too much of you
Of me

Betty’s a kind soul
And I hear she still grants forgiveness
Telling me
“I guess I’m an underwater thing so I guess I can’t take it personally.”  
Get it out the system
Rocks in your legs
Line me up in single file
With all your grievances
Sinking in a gentle pool of wine and water
I don’t know which one Jesus really wanted to change

I taste her in the water
She’s going off with confusion
Not
Persephone

“So I must be flowing.”
Out for God
Out for them

I pray the lord
My soul to keep
It
Just between us

It’s a consequence of sorts in this place
Something coming along in frame of mind
In Her eyes, ego shouldn’t have a face
And all of us are the ones to blame

Hijack Mrs. Jesus for a small trip
13 hours to Mexico-what a waste
To think no follower would miss
The chance to see her in her proper place

heart—cease and desist this racket
a jumping of one
                                                             two
you know where we are going

my flower
is a proud blooming
on the face—dress up and play the part for bright shiny cameras in a dark blue
                                                                                                 stallion
Dealy Plaza is thinspacelusicouspinkburntfilmsunkissedwithmotorcycleoil
                        the dress is wet
he’s such a cute boy when not so
          defunct
in her eyes
laden and lead down behind a socket—ripe
flesh is
                                                          weak

I am often jealous of Michelangelo.
To be called on to create something as an homage to God and His heavenly hosts is enough, but I cannot imagine trails of taking something other than yourself and bleeding it out onto canvas in a burst of light and color and devotion.
And for a brief, terrifying moment, it is just sound and God, reaching out to create another Adam within him.

mothers are interesting to think about.
here is a person that God
or the universe or whatever profound and unimaginable thing that our feeble human minds cannot comprehend
took and made into your growing space
her body now a thing to inhabit you-forming into something better
than she could ever hope for-
and giving you everything in the selfish way that love requires in every relationship
her breath
her blood
her being
separated and shared
until time and nature decides to spill you out into the world for all to see.
No wonder you cried when you were born

“Sorry, not sorry,” says the nature of change
Brought through with cameras and champagne on the brain
Sometimes I wonder how you handle it
New York is a drowning city
What a pity -- strangers
Lose themselves in the noise a bit
But know your clothes, your face
The smell of Chanel
And cold bedsheets

Keeps the mind’s peace and pieces  
Flittering on fame’s release
Hollywood’s a real scream
Isn’t it? Winding and navigating the museum of dolls
Please! Give a little more

In the room with the TV blinkers
Smile
And then you’ll mean something to me

Blue haze of taffeta and ballyhoo
Cold haze of taffeta and ballyhoo
***** burns the throat and is a heavy glory
Holds itself on your brain and the mirror’s a real thing
To illuminate inside and out and who
You are nothing short of a barbiturate queen
Take a breath

In the room with the TV blinkers
Smile
And then you’ll mean something to me

the world
of course she didn't expect it to be small at all but it helps with the feeling of being able to breathe something other than London air and guilt
that's the strangest feeling in the end of all things and accompanies her like a dog during errands and hobbies and nights out curling in her lap in the dark of a too empty living room
you look so much like your mother
a generation can see a moment of a womb misplaced, a misstep in spring dances and the smell of grass and the feeling of white stone walls
dignitaries never expected a star to come from your brother's wife first
daughter of this not-eve never-eve
remember the ache in your own heart at your sister's cries
back arched like the curve of your bow
spine click and bones moving
organs
and another piece of the girl in old shoes by a lamppost spills out into their wardrobe world
you look nothing like your mother
not a queen but a body of two syllables heavy with teeth behind
red lips
she wears disappointment like lipstick and air and London fog
be magnificent
be just
be valiant
but gentle is only a slap in the face
and even God couldn't stop a war
a letter
a train

Formulation of shapes and angles in a space between my head and brain
I push and curve the pound of flesh around and behind white serration in a wet cave
And try and try and try
My voice comes out bruised

Honeycomb and needle
If the moon could talk she would talk like you
Beautiful and cold all at once
Antiquity worships Jupiter for placing shadows and light into the minds of marble men
I dip my finger into my existence
God on my tongue, but the apple core is stuck in my throat
Being tastes like nothing

dear god
i see my friend at the train station
mouth black with soot and apprehension
white knuckles curled around a suitcase full of you and stickers plastered
on the front of my boot
dirt caked and loose thread all coming apart
of me and you and i and they are a changeling
a golden ring
a sour ping
a little thing
i think that every suitcase has you with dead wood and a broken string
try to find my opus in the back of the closet
my valuable
*** caked with a bible full of flies