note to poetry. if you had a mouth i’d feed you my body.

time heals some wounds, god says. but what does god know of time. what does god know of wounds.

the snake eats itself by itself. its hunger is an eyeless king.

is the story over/

the monster under my bed
is made of milk and flowers

long into the night. a matching game for demons. nobody saves nobody. describe hunger. describe hunger's hunger.

weather when it means something. darkness like an inside. godfly trapped in aspic. thunder, my hands are numb.

bathtub for mermaid. jacuzzi for lung. anemone for sternum. conch for tongue. lonely mermaid. her pain is a jellyfish. a lost cell phone. a shark in open water. a lighthouse.

a very specific lighthouse.

(because i want to tell you about quetzalcoatl and his rabbit but i can’t)

rabbit lore of the vulture. rabbit lore of the rattlesnake. hunger isn’t a god thing. they don’t know grass eaters. they don’t know lucky feet. they don’t know the shape of food. the softness of blood. rabbit lore of long ears. rabbit lore of rabbit. don’t let the god become a man. he’ll see prey and put her in the sky.

the angels watch as i ***** poems into a bucket. later, they will carry the bucket to god. i’ll never get it back. i’m sorry there isn’t more

tongue shy in the city of dreams.
my dress inspires violence,
my jaw is painted like a lily.
i hoped this would be enough, but i hoped many things.
crow season, god says,
roadkill up ahead. go
wash your face. this isn't how you catch the angel.

i am believed to have swallowed a world. an angel comes to make me *****. the angels fingers are spiders legs. they are many. i think this is the most ****** thing i’ve ever done. the world isn’t there.

what is it about birds. about flatland. about tornado season. note to poetry. we're just animals. i wanted to have your babies. you made my life so small.

the demon finds my bed in the city of dreams. i am overcome by a tragic sort of thunder. when kissed, i turn to water in the demon's mouth. when woken, i turn to water in my own. this isn't sadness

note to poetry. life makes ****** of us all. don't feel bad about god.

on one hand a grown up egg
rolling down a hill
on the other, no hand, no egg
no hill

my pyre. my ghost of a pyre. i wanted love to ruin me. it still might, i guess. note to poetry? if you don’t take the diary i’m going to drown it. hide it somewhere. under your pillow. on the moon.

on the eve of my design i set a trap for saturn with my thirty year old body my most virginal pair of ******* the smallest wax doll the
-
circlesoulsaltstar
-
i
-
am still afraid of my image
-
blow smoke rings for my ghost

having woke into the same dream i closed eyes upon god says goodmorning taste of mist have you slept well were there demons i would like to braid your hair your nest of snakes come close apple of rot and shine come close egg at the end of the world but really i do not want to i am angry i have slept with gold butterflies hiding in the shell of my ears and i want to keep them a golden fluttering secret i tell god you are the worst mother to us all you have brought so much pain home in plastic bags god smacks me with the back of a brush but it does not hurt because i am a glass of bitter juice i am so angry i am the sound of thunder over the sound of pain but like soul pain and yeah this is why i am mad i ask god what were you thinking were you not thinking were you daydreaming was it like making breakfast was it like ruining breakfast i think i can do it better there is a butterfly wing stuck to my cheek and it feels like glass i tell god let me try to make breakfast but god has in this moment found the passengers god presses electric fingertips to the stipes of my cheekbone says your skin is tender from loneliness has become nutritious fruitlike says you can not sin in this way ship of sad waters this is not a cure these butterflies these metamorphosed jellies you can not keep them they will infest you they will tell you lies they will change the coordinates of your dreams come closer sandcastle of abandoned beach come closer lantern of zombie prayer i will remove them before we start breakfast

choose a super memorable password. the mind is the weirdest thing. puppy fear. puppy chance. puppy bone.

the time has come to burn the witch. if you recognize her, keep silent. if she is innocent, say nothing. guilt, as it is measured by the eye socket of milk snake skull/ as it runneth through bone to pool in a fleshless land/ is present here. in this witch. in this body. which is to say, there is time left to drink from the howlite moon. but do not ask the witch how. we have taken precautions. we have made perfect her form. mouthless as a moth. eyeless as a worm. watch, now, as she calms upon the pyre. as she soul calls fate. i think we will live to regret this.

come back
(oh captain of the starship viscera)

take back
your cd’s

it wasn’t my *** staining denim
it wasn’t my tongue licking rain

from ankles
and knees

i don’t think i want to make movies
anymore

the lake hurts. the lake hurts my lake. it’s not one of my regrets. i don’t know what to call the water place inside me, so i call it gothic barbie dream house. no, not its real name. yes, i spend too much time inside. i grow a tail fin. it’s beautiful, but i don’t appreciate it. complain about missing bikini bottoms. complain about sore throat. gothic barbie dream house isn’t on any maps. gothic barbie dream house has a NO DIVERS ALLOWED sign, just in case. gothic barbie dream house is a silent movie with future color. gothic barbie dream house has posters of punk ken in every room that i use to practice kissing. punk ken is going to think i’m such a good kisser. gothic barbie dream house has a room for *** toys and a room for mutilation. i spend equal time in each. not a huge fan of either. gothic barbie dream house has a bathroom; has clutter of perfume crystal, silk wing, menstrual cup. gothic barbie dream house has a kitchen, but i don’t use it. pink and purple plastic. easy bake oven and short tables. tea drinking mice eating tooth sized cakes. gothic barbie dream house has a mouse problem and so many mirrors. gothic barbie dream house has a dungeon, a disco ball and blow up sofas. menageries of giant stuffed animals. there is a demon dancing in the corner with an unlit candle. gothic barbie dream house smells like blood. gothic barbie dream house smells like water. gothic barbie dream house is full of bubbles, new fins, air hoses. this is where i realize the demon is a diver, and it hurts gothic barbie dream house to its distant river. this is where i don’t know what to say when the diver asks, does it go deeper. i tell the diver gothic barbie dream house goes on forever, but they don’t understand. it looks like a lake to them. the diver asks my name, and i say, listen. diving is dangerous. let’s have a tea party. and look. we both have fins-

[the poet tries to convince herself she’s not time traveling in her sleep]

there is no time dilation in dreams. if that breaks your heart, i’m sorry. (LaBerge, 1986)./ mood ring in the shape of a man gives me a gun./ a clock watching time does weird things. the other clock (Einstein, 1907)./ outside they’re celebrating moonlessness, and i don’t know enough about time travel. i do know one thing about time travel: we’re way too big, man. we gotta get smaller. there would be a door. maybe even a bunch of doors. but i do mean small. god of dust dreams of dust. moteish./ savage garden of the mind… but the body!... the mind…? the body…? (Descartes, ?)./ i don’t even drive this car. i have lightning in a bottle. spaced out techno jelly. a brain. anyway, god is not me and i am not my body. two clowns, one car. no steering wheel./ my friends, let us think, again, about God. (Leibniz, 1714.)/ clowns? no, clocks. and how big

really, can the mind be?

[diptychs]

i
deer headed
hand puppet
licks
a bellybutton

ii
the bear takes
a picture of
me sleeping
with my thumb
in my mouth
and shares it
with his friends

-

i
when did you stop saying
you
in your poems
when
did you start

ii
if it seems like i was gone it’s because i was
not from the field
not from the pilot
neither of which
i thought were real

-

i
god says
go with grace
but i haven’t
put my makeup
on

ii
the universe
drops her joke
like a skirt

[untitled]

god
i was so
art to the
nth degree

so neon

starved
but so

able to hunt.

chewtoy
bubblegum

for some
chosen

tooth
mouth
tongue.

i’m here from the future to say nothing has changed.

[untitled]

i ride the thigh of a
tinman

all slow like there is
music

but there's not the sun

**** yellow on this
cracked

earth

-

the lion is

fierce
in its fantasy. we

have found
an excess of corn

and i
am an artist

-

we have the same shoe size

me
and that pigtailed girl  same

sort
of freak storm

do you think she looks sad

-

won't write about the scare
crow

think i took something from
him

foghorn on dream beach. i prepare myself a crown of pink bones. ***. bible pages. the devil pretends to drown in shallow water. wants mouth to mouth. is willing to wait. i will not live long here.

(grinderman- man in the moon)

astronauts aren’t real

trust me.
i’m sorry.

wish they were.
-
i ask god,
why aren’t there as many words for hunger
as there are for fear?

god doesn’t know.
tells me to make my own.

hieroglossia.
aspermancy.
pteroknetsis.
-
in this dream i have a box of carabiners and a fish in a cup. the sky is orange and the land is dark. there is no moon. probably never was one. i pretend the cup is the moon. the fish is confused. the fish’s poem would have been better.

1-800-BEAR
... removal? is that a thing? julie thinks i’m joking, but she also thinks i’m not good at jokes. she has a prescription for nausea and non-fiction family. a sneaker collection. i like when she talks about her dreams. she likes when i talk about shattering. julie asks why i don’t call the cops. i laugh because her jokes are better than mine. i pick up a different object every day and call it art. today? a to-go cup of orange juice. it hurts so bad. cops **** dogs.
-
i tell god i will be such a good girl. god tells me i’m not a girl. i don’t think that’s important. god says stowaways don’t get second chances. i think that’s *******. i tell god there were no chances, only iterations (spaceship/arbor/fane). god gives me a remote, calls me uncontrolled.
-
orange triangle in a blue sky. all my art is the same art, and i want to say all the wrong things about it. i want to be all the wrong things about it. wrong. get it wrong, say the name wrong, paint the wrong shape, compost everything. feed it to the angels. if they’re here.
-
as we approach the valley i ask, is this mine? honest mistake.
i’m excited, but god is hanging back on this one. lawn chair, cocktail with umbrella and straw. pink sunglasses and a technicolor poncho.
no, god says. but look alive.
we've come [together] to observe the supper of the venerable maw.
the valley is deep and suffering.
are you sure this isn’t mine, i ask again, but then i see it-
my reason for journeying.
taller than god-tales. mouth a frothing triangle. arms ending in twin fetishes.
suddenly i'm the moon in a field of flowers.
there's a village and they provide sheep for the feeding. the sheep are loud. they sound like one animal.
go no closer, god says. i go no closer.
the behemoth unhinges its jaw, and- i'm the moon in a field of dead cars. no. i'm a cup and i’m full of strange water.
this is mine, i tell god. stop lying to me.
god says nothing. god gods a bar into existence. music in the valley. blood on wool in the valley. i'm pulled inside and fed different food.

the night is long and it is confusing. we have come to the rest stop at the end of the world. to learn hard lessons, god says. but i’ve been here before, and god nods. tears glitter their cheeks. you were too sapling to notice, god says. the dimness, how it falls. the bokeh, how it seeps from the trees. i tell god we need to go back to get my glasses, but god says no. you must come prepared. listen, god says, the end of the world is lonely. the rest stops lay abandoned. the colors go unnamed. the tornado sirens nightly. it is the whine of a hungry dog, nose to the blacktop, panicked. it knows about the end. the scent in its mouth is the memory of your taste. you must not come, this time, astounded. myopic. eclipsed. pre-blissed, the mythos of ghosts like whispering insects ******* the honey from your corpse. and i am… astounded. i am blind. i am pre-blissed. i fall like the dimness. i bokeh like the trees. god pulls an insect from my ear and crushes it. god gives me my glasses and pulls me to my feet. says, watch closely, sapling. the end is so near. you are so lonely. and the dog- i fear it has noticed us.

i ask god
how wrong
i was and
-
for a moment i thought i could pause time
-
dead eyes
still water

glass of milk
tipped over
-
god says there are no hidden places left to read bones

i want to write about things that aren't mine. this is not a day for god and i'm sad. i'm sorry for being sad. i want to know what else happened in 1992 but i am a false believer. this means a lot of things. most aren't mine. someone hold me.

(she likes watching herself cry, it’s hilarious)

i
found the mirror stage
in a fireplace. alone

-

god lives in my bathroom

-

abjection
devil gaze

existence                 as a form of
violatory

-


(you’re, like, so exotic)

god

i am this close
to vomiting my
classic impoverished american
upbringing
all over this
classic impoverished american
room

-

poemform
bodygenre

nobody understands
masochism

hands
or deep water

they will say they do
don’t listen

[diptych]

i
the women
in my fiction
are always
taking off
their shoes

ii
how strange
to find
a chick
in a frying pan
how strange
to find
two

-

(“spider goddess, needle boy”)

really god
are we all just your love letters
to the universe

the ****

-

[who is forgiveness for]

man who took a belt to your
four year old face

sends you a birthday card
every year

still spells your name wrong
you wonder when he’ll die

you know what you’ll bring
to his grave


[my grandmother said she saw jesus]

so, what does someone do with a stolen ******?

fire, maybe?

and then further
                                                                   back

but not really

that far?

there must have been so much fire   when jesus

got here.

-

from

[sleep studies/ or dogs for metaphorical rapture]

braced against a demon
like the last tree on a flooded plane

the dream changes

-

god isn’t in the dreams, but that’s because god is the dreams. if that doesn’t make sense it’s because i’m a waitress. anyway, chaos. but, also not so much chaos. math, migratory patterns, circadian rhythms, menstrual cycles, lunar phases. god. can’t get it out of my head. i need to sleep. i sleep so much. sleep is the last thing i do. wake up tired. where did you go last night. what did you do

sinners want company. this isn't a fatal flaw, i promise. feels like one
-
god
how
i bruise
like an
apple
am i
even a
woman
am i
-
coal eyed dog following blood trails through a parking lot
-
what is it the bible never said about idle hands? worship them? teach them how to beg? cut them off?

i don't ******* want to

prophetic softness of the jaguar's paw.
-
milk, and the things milk can do.

we can live without many things

sun
up
til
sun
down
a
scarab
pushes
a need through my body
i
still
refuse
to name
-
god can you change the dreams

can you

time traveler/ holding a puppy/ gets a nosebleed
-
the things i can’t write about

tornado
how jeans rubbing against
my crotch
feels
echo
somber hook of hand

i didn’t mean

to
-
god i am
doglost

cornfield
lost

i have a lighter but
no pack

of
cigarettes

god comes with the ice and says false believer your soul is freezing over says there is no reason for you to be this way i have sent you beasts for the drowning but you every time take their place you have become rinsed linen watered silk half a woman still faithless in youth why have you not chosen another why have you held so tight to the ghost fish of murky pond why have you not grown ill of your demons of your dogs why child have you chosen this child’s life it will **** you this loneliness and not soon but soon you will regret this long watch this walk along the pier god says come silent church come counterfeit rib i will tuck you into bed and read you a story about storms

god says
the worship of false idols
isn’t a sin
in the morbid sequin.
it’s even encouraged.

-

digame chelo

have we
been here

before

has god

king’s castle/ my hands
full of

blood
come

watch how i pray

this night the body is a basin oiled, a basin bloodied, a basin strewed with intestine and cast upon by many fragments of bone many handfuls of teeth, body, as it imagines such hands at work, hands capable of such sin, throwing as they do, now, handfuls of nails-

my mouth waters like a dream. god isn’t thrilled. calls me trespasser- says, cálmate, trespasser. you must keep quiet here. do not weep. or, if you must weep, do so only with the promised tongue. keep shy near the neon pools. summon from the depths no eyeless horror. and i know god means the newt. orange of pain and spotted of soul. the newt i will love until the end of days. until fire falls from the sky. until i am found, delirious, promised tongue licking heat from its skin. god says not again, trespasser. sew shut your mouth. pluck blind your eyes. i can only give you so many deaths, and i am tired.

(Absolution: A Ghost Story)

part one.  

it’s called moving on. you don’t know what that is?

the ghost shakes his head. crown of crow feathers. moon skin. eyes like christmas ornaments.

it’s how you leave this place, i guess. haven’t you tried?

but the ghost is weeping willows in an empty field. the ghost is romancing the worms.

we can look together, i say.

i take him with me. the worms are sad. the birds look hungry.

part two.  

i take the ghost home.

i ask the ghost if he can turn invisible because i have a bear and he’s not very nice. the ghost says he will try, and he turns his body into a cup.

there, he says. now i am invisible.

i wonder if the ghost confused invisible, with useful.

ghostcup, full of water, throws a haunted shadow.

part three.

don’t you believe in heaven?

i don’t, but i don’t tell the ghost this.

we sit, entwined, in my bathtub. the curtain is pulled closed and i have brought out all the candles.

the ghost is afraid of electricity. says it hurts like snow.

i don’t think heaven is here, he says. i would have found it by now.

part four.  

we will not become lovers.

i think this is obvious, but it’s also important (i have taken a vow of self and other, which means nothing to the ghost).

i tell the ghost i am the sluttiest nun. i am the most chaste of teases.

he understands this, but in the way of ghosts. in the way of boys.

i take him into the basement to watch movies. i make him a bed behind the dryer. and no, i don’t leave.

part five.

i have this dream, and i tell it to the ghost boy.

i have this dream and in this dream i have this garden. it feeds me. i have this dream, and i have this garden, and i have this monster. we share a dangerous house, but it is ours. there are knives everywhere. i step on one every day before breakfast. the monster bandages my foot while i eat.

can i meet your monster, the ghost boy asks.

i tell him it is impossible. instead, we go to the zoo, and i show him the panthers.

(flightless bird, american mouth- iron & wine)

dear god. i’m thirty years old. i still love vampires; still love yellow moons. i thought, by now, i’d have my own monster; byronesque and ******; doomed to my side. ****, god. don’t cry. sing me a song

I.
Ive been eavesdropping on the autophobe;

my boyfriend doesn't believe in ghosts, doesn't see the dirt on my shoes.

He wants me to get myself off, to break out the winter blankets.

II.
My companion candied her scalp, says she quit using ******
because it messes with her complexion.

I think thats like riding a bike, like going back a few years and
falling in love with your dads mechanic.

III.
Someone coughs up a lung, prays like hell for a sign, for a clean bill of health.

You are an amateur prospector, found a geode cave deep in my stomach, split it open.

Twin hickies near the knees; my boyfriend tells me to forget
about alien abductions, to quit picking up the strays i find at buick city.

I pulled out a scarf and pretended to be a fortune teller;
thick insense, marijuana. Lottery smile.
I'd never lie about my lucky document shredder, my broken down motorcycle.

Not like cheap wine poured over cellulite; a hog dripping blood; she hunter fed on leaves.

Should the basketball hoop fall at a different angle and spare your clavicle, you would
see smoke signals from the squatters place- their fruitcake is delicious.

Can't be sure about their dog though,  their dog had rabies and a collar that says FREELANCE.

I put too much hot sauce in the hashbrowns. I was still drunk.
I told my boyfriend his fortune was insincere,
that I am [today] a dead pilot and a stripper and a jilted florist all before noon.

(Absolution: A ghost story)

part six.

i tell the ghost we’re going to find heaven.

i tell him heaven can be many things. like paradise, or a buick.

but i need you to do something when you get there, i say.

i’ll do anything, the ghost says, and for a second i think he’s a different ghost.

don’t say that, i tell him. why, he asks.

wrong snake, different mess. zip up your coat. it’s cold, and we’re going outside.

part seven.

outside i keep a shed of all my desires.

this is what i tell myself, anyway. caged in vines, guarded by a single broomstick.

to keep out the poets, i tell the ghost. it never worked very well.

inside the shed are couches, statues of pluto, wet specimens, sketches of all my monster boyfriends and several smoking typewriters.

hell, the ghost asks. i say yes.

part eight.

i show the ghost the letters. i am weak with embarrassment. it turns me young.

this is where i learn the ghost can’t read, and it feels like… luck.

let me teach you, i tell him. but the ghost reminds me he’s going to heaven,

and won’t there be people in heaven that can do that? and won’t you be coming anyway?

i think this is funny. i show the ghost my wrist bones. i say, this is not a heaven body. but listen, i need you to deliver these.

i put the letters in his pocket. i cross my heavenless wrists over my chest.

find the guy with my name nailed under his tongue. he’ll teach you. i know he will.

this makes the ghost sad but his sadness makes me love him more. we go inside and i read him poetry.

a lot of stuff. mostly mine. who am i kidding? mostly yours.

one million words of fiction. i can't write myself a mother. a lover. a friend.

(does the devil get scared if she dies in her dreams)

my greed, pale as *****, fills a cup.

poor cup.

.
.

after eating the flesh
of an animal
my lips glow red
and i think
this is not
how dead girls look

antler, bone.
i walk like a dead thing
in the snow.

my dog sees another dog through the window. neighbor’s dog. i don’t know why he wants it. his whine is high and lonesome. i can’t write the rest of this poem.