what he says

i’m sorry about the moving truck
outside of our home
but i’m leaving you, going to chicago
there is no one else
there is no one at all for me
that’s why i’m leaving; this will be better for us both
don’t say anything you might regret
& who knows
by the time our only child is older
maybe i’ll be back
maybe things will have changed by then
something this backwards has to turn right
at some point.

flying dutchmen

i’m learning how to improve my sky-hook
w/ jeff malone
the nephew of moses malone.
bang that ball on the garage door—
& the neighbors hate me,
but who needs ‘em
i say to all the neeighbors’s kids
that i’m learning how to improve my sky-hook
w/ jeff malone
the nephew of moses malone,
who played @ hofstra as a sophmore
& averaged 2.4 points & 1.4 rebounds per game,
but the neighbors’s kids say who
who is moses malone
& i say he is the uncle of jeff malone
but they still don’t get it
they just don’t understand who he is.

comb

honey comes slow from you,
golden hairs mingle, a toe curl—
makes it difficult to walk
away.
feeling folksy in my fingers
to tell you where i’ve been
& why
it hasn’t been w/ you.
because i hibernate
deep in the mountain
where trees never change &
my words come in spring to bloom,
places that rarely see enough sun,
suddenly do.

fingers

deviled boys grease each other
their hands
dip
nothing watches them; always talks to them,
pale doldrums, a wave of wheat--
floats above, at attention. grabbing
out-stretched pink arms licked by fat
take it all.

untitled

we are no longer women; straining our necks with the weight of our breasts
long slender necks that pursuade to the chin,
hold out our heads as bulbed-white gods.
every beat, a momentum in continuous form,
every call, a light-house directing the point,
barking vees arrow the parallel ground,
some surface that knew us until we learned how to do this.


down

knee deep in your daily beast
funny is the way i hear.
holding your egg in the cave of my chest,
i am comfortable beneath the phoenix down
& even the wind that drives me naked
across the desert i was born,
a mattress of cattle-stamp wheat
& heralds hark, beauty under bluffed cloud.

alzheimers

i've had apples
i've had good apples
i've had all kinds of apples
my sister, shes 93, she lives in a nursing home
i visit her every day
except yesterday when it rained
her name is elizibeth taylor, shes 93
i hope i never get alzheimers
i hope i can live as long as my sister
& you might call me a religious fanatic
but when god calls you
you gotta go

failed attempt @ ampersand in multiple fonts

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my fourth year

the apple tree that fell on my sister
the car that talked
until the bank took it back
my father standing on the porch while the rest of us hid from the tornado
my giraffe pajamas
i found out what professional wrestling was— and loved it
scraping my leg on the concrete wall
losing my tonsils
telling my mom i hated her for making me take that disgusting orange medicine
eating sugar out of the cupboard
dreaming of women
i would ride my babyblue rocking horse for weeks
rolling the grain of my bedroom floor
the purple light-bulb my mother would put in the bathroom
i would get so excited to see that way

i have friends who wrestled in aurora
(for paul clark)

horses
something you don’t think about
as a defining a man
horses as they should be
where he’s from
but can’t remember
he rides these horses & can’t remember
their names but
he rides horses & i almost s'd
my mother rides horses
but not the same
no mustache
no fist on chin
all bruised up
no kids
or at least ones that can be remembered
they have names
all horses have names
something like
but he can’t remember
& he s'd he feels really bad
i agree
it’s all fists on chins
trying to remember where y’re from
& what you named yr kids

i have friends who wrestled in aurora
(for paul clark)

horses, something you don’t think about as a defining point
in a man
horses as they should be
where he’s from, but he can’t remember
he rides these horses & can’t remember their names
but he rides horses & i almost said my mother rides horses
but not the same
no mustache, no fist on chin-- all bruised up
no kids, or at least ones that can be remembered
they have names,
all horses have names,
something like, but he can’t remember
& he said he feels really bad.
i agree.
it’s all fists on chins
trying to remember where you’re from
& what you named your kids.

boat house



crumble to find sparrow nest adjacent to us
splinters where we’re told not to be children
my hand moves between the deck grain
small brown pears smooth the floor
keep my head level as the structure sways
focused on your naked feet