bleached
beneath
a 10 kilowatt
moon
anticipating
geometry
the smell
of soap
that same
instant
calling into
question
bisexuality
without flesh
or
the vibration
of blood

The walls of my throat are scratched,
By all the fishbones I've swallowed,
Forced down by gulps of rice and vinegar.

But sometimes,
The bones refuse to move.
Sometimes,
They remain stuck.

swimming in a fishbowl's all fun and games

'till you're f l o a t i n g in the ocean

alone.

He stared down
                into the dark, twisting waves, as if
a voice spoke to him from
                                                         the watery depths
                             below.

                                            It seemed to pull him in and
                                                                                              pool in him.
It swam circles
          in his curiosity.

The Sun stabbed at the waves, washing rainbows     over
glimmering abalone.
                Translucent bubbles danced
in its light.
Fishbones lay quietly on the ocean floor, forgotten.
                                                                                   Starfish whispered to him, tales
of how they had lost their arms to the
                      creatures that walk in the sun.

                                                        Urchins complained about the oil pooling in their waters.
Sharks gave him the silent treatment.
And despite the fact that he too had legs and walked in the sunlight,

                               he knew he was not made for the sun,
                      but for the sea.
                                                            And the waves whispered his name with
salt and foam.

We ate Frank Fleming's Tongue Cake
Smoking cigarettes in stone gardens where we're not supposed to
Looking Down Yosemite Valley and yeah we were in that valley
"They moved the piano." I tell you. I don't know where it's gone.
"I guess it was contemporary art."
I say, "You're contemporary art..." "Don't worry death is at the laundromat, not here." and I pull out my best Mona Lisa smile.

It's silent here, the color white seems out of place

Kerry James Marshall is speaking history to us
Renaissance is falling on deaf ears
I tell you I want a Native American cradle if I'm ever a mother
And the kids will have fishbones and legends
                                                       instead of Pop Art Princess, barbie

Sally Mann, she left me heartbroken
with silver prints/photocopies of childhood like ghosts
Botero's Reclining **** looks comfy
And there's a Dali missing.

I remember the first time we met;
you were a lightning bolt that
stricked a fire in my heart

they were dark days,
I was resting on the shoulders of
hopelessness, dancing with a two
left footed devil

it took me less than a heartbeat
to trust you, to test the water,
the wild white waves of my madness

nuzzled into my neck, as if
God himself had designed for
our spines to lock

man of the stars, wandering
the skies to find me, a held out
hand pushing though the galaxies
that tie us to reality, to longing

roaming far from my chest. An
empty cage where fishbones
rattle,

I pray for rain, for thunder,
for the slightest sign of you.
I am not soft and warm,

I am calamity, child of the
night, woman of the Earth
holding an entire universe
between my teeth

and waiting, wild eyed and hungry
for your electric

kiss

"I mean we were destined to fail, I've read every card in the deck, scry'd every crystal in the store. Looked for meanings in the Stars, the tea, the cracks in the pavement. Fishbones, wishbones, my palms and the swirls at the back of my eyelids. Can't you see?"

"I see. The magpies came in two's."

"Exactly, there's happiness somewhere."

"Just not here."

**"Yes. Just not here."

The assumption’s success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
that that again for you
there are too many of these words for suspense.

Assumptiosly,
I’m picking thorns from the lips the years
used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
Probably I’m a fishbone’s softened point
as red as roses aren’t without the ******
that made the same red as half the red
on your hands already.

It’s time and
again to tell you in as many and as broken
as entire houses hand blown and probably painted
like goose egg words that
I add Salt to things I like and need to keep
longer than this no understatement
I’ve made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.

I ate oceans feeling fishbones breaking;
                                      breaking;
                        breaking;
          breaking
me, talking to you like chopping a tree onto myself.

Even if words or not are in the right order
do or don’t you understand *do or don’t you?

It’s the first time and
again to tell you
I’m as broken as an entire house hand blown and probably painted
like goose eggs.
And again, Salt’s all I add
to things I already like, it’s
no understatement I’ve
made you an ocean filled full of fish bones.
I assume success is exciting
that danger too
is too and
again that for you
there are too many words.
Peach,
bear,
broken,
syrup,
or-terse,
are not enough to get life to work like you but
are enough to get life to work for you.
When or not in the right order
you do or don’t understand don’t or do you?
Necessarily,
I’m picking thorns from the years
andagain lips used to tell you you
have less faults than a rose.
In essence and again I’m a fishbone hut
in a **** storm and again
roses aren’t as red without the ****** that
may or may not have made the same red as
half the red on your hands already, and again,
I eat/ate oceans and am fishbones
breaking me brings no wishes or good luck
or and again I’ve choked children and
again talking to you is like chopping a tree onto myself.

She and me
Kick our legs over the cliff
Watching the water pound in steep
Crests of mist,
Awash the quaking stone.

Drinking through the daze
Withering and coastal
Happy with every day
that drips
And growing older
Sedimentary
Seeking the simple deaths of life.

And when we sang our songs to the flocks of gulls
And they called saline
Eating fishbones
Circling like biplanes
Above the coast
We wondered what wandrous
Raptors out ran the oilpan
And instead became this.

We eat our picnic meats
And settle down for a long daydream
Staring at the overcast blanket
Seeing streaks of Grey dispersed between
Feeling
Warm and a little bit loved by the sea.

Me and she
There was no stopping
Her questions, flying hot lead at my
Brain
Dripping gall juice inside the spleen
Infected and hungry
Waiting to engorge our final meal
A bunch of microscopes in the petri
Dished out and left to drift
Amongst the lapping waves.

Assuredly,
When those gulls flapped their lazy way
Heading down the coast
Searching for simple meals
And calling family in the sky
They wondered to god
about solitary
You and I
And just what was our deal?

I
God Nine ***** his thumb—
the one with the garish topaz ring.
Even if you don’t know where to start,
you can pick him out of the circle.
Look behind each one’s ear till you find the tattoo.

II
Showing off to junior high school girls,
the skater fell
before he could commence the final turn
of his figure eight.
God grabbed his blade.

III
God prefers nine
The small girl watches traffic passing her house.
She estimates, in her childish way, the incidence
of accidents at one in five thousand fourteen cars.
On the bare, smoking engine block of the most recent wreck
she reads the serial number: G-O-D-9.

IV
We can train a hungry pigeon to scratch out anything—
God,
Lagomorph,
9—
given enough sunflower seeds and horses

V
The first thing I taught my son
was knitting. Then he learned God.
After that he was on his own.
He never could spell “Charles” (C-H-A-L),
and counted “... 6, 7, 8, 10.”

VI
In Corsica, they write the number ‘9’ on its side
to confuse it with ‘6’.
This pleases the Barbary apes, though
god knows the tin whistles are loud enough.


VII
... a hail of symbols. The stir-crazy physicist
hung from the groaning lower bough of the ash
pelting us all with umlauts and nines, shying
plomets, as the Herr Gott
sings through fibre optic cable.

VIII
Answer: God takes tin and fishbones.
Theme: the best inzulation against disappointment
in love.
Query: 9, as a hat with a lost finger?


IX
9> God< Opera > Charles < 9.
Which I hate, being left-handed —
I drag the flat of my hand across the tail.
The wet ink blackens the clean page.
And no, I will resist pencil unto death

I remember fondly,
breathing fire with you,
your soul whispered softly
resonant red tunes.
Your depths had me drowning,
in deep briny blues.
Salt burned my eyes,
I was lost in you.

You told me you had to go.
You had your bait, you got your kicks.
The line was cut loose, the tide ripped me back
Smashed on the rocks,
hooks still in my back.

You deep sea monster,
I was entranced by your light,
I missed your teeth.

You siren, you sea witch,
You lovecraftian horror.

You got what you needed,
The gulls got the remains.

Yet here now I stand,
Stripped of my flesh.
Bones moved by the wind
My ribcage still with breath.
So I built me a tower
Fishbones and stench

To stand on your shore,
White as the moon
To stand on your shore
To watch over you
Because despite all of this.

I'm still in love with you.

some visions are pedestrian
workaday
bring them home for night time consumption
then out with the fishbones
but you
you're a memory i'll stick under the tree
unwrap at christmas