THE PARTY

Again I’ll illustrate the room: wool plaid and chestnut hair, the whale belly held in by buttons, 

my brother kissing my bangs, my mother over the endive, torches out, 

my waist, my waist, shimmy spine 

to scoop out ice 

with a crumpled cup.  

SOUTHGATE

We just have bodies

and move them around

mine feels better with a  little

height-help, a soundtrack,

something fizzy

“that’s some classic bullshit”

hashtag hashtag hashtag

the gliding queen in black sweat shorts

pivoting at angel angles

the bandit hand holders and all

the tumblers – the little bar

with the carpet corridor,

waitress in skates

a daisy skirt

all kinds of medicine

in the breeze

GAME DAY

On game day everything is quiet and I can take you,

Brother of Mine, out for food, 

we wait with the old people and the surviving punks 

for corner tables and you are already grossed out 

by what I will order long before

I’ve chosen

I lust for potato pancakes,  you just want a bagel

and bacon, the streets are quiet for us, the rain is like

Seattle on TV, not real deal constant wet but strong large

water that fills that streets and weighs down

the windshield wipers

We've got ideas and dreams and know what will make us feel good, 

in Goodwill I don’t have to plan anything, we let each other go,  

I’m looking for a good winter coat  but will settle 

for any number of jackets, small, old clothes 

from Asian countries fit me best

And you want a Mariners hat now that the Seahawks

have won

MEN WITH BUTTERFLY TATTOOS

The light, wet day

is a hard pressing hand

not enough, but something

a faded, fucked up reckoning

a butterfly is different

than a swallow,

than a dove

WISHING I SMOKED

Justify a break

out back

with the garbage,

justify

a few stolen minutes

unreasonable, unseasonable

love

vice equates justice

and cigarettes make fingers

look long

THE COOL GIRLS

The cool girls agree there needs to be a fund for better ambiance. Their latest collective dream is Christmas lights, colored only, squished into messy rats nests, pressed flat across walls. No inch spared. The cool girls slouch into their drinks and talk about deep things without meaning to, huddle with their batons. They have bundles of daughters and mothers and ghosts joining their chemistry,  tucked under collars and stored halfway up the slim sleeves of essential white shirts. They triple the warmth of the room, humor the suave operators, enjoy some of it. It’s part of their job.

HUNG UP

Envious of that

rotary phone reality,

hip forward walk

through the screen door

to the sound of a ring

(some things are actual),

and I’m still

hung up on her.

If she were perfume

she’d be named

Reason To Live

and all the lonely

dogs and goats would

buy her by the bottle

at the drugstore,

coat their bodies in her mist,

cloak their lazy head colds,

the sheets of their death beds,

sleepily shut their  

heavy liquor lids

to the sound of

the spray.

THE SUN KISSED

The sun was fair and kissed

the gold field, your teal t-shirt

evenly

I made your birthday card

in the wind

boys walked by and argued

rolled Rs, harsh Us

something about

Abbey Road, Abbey Road

new couples kissed new kisses

the sun kissed the sky

and set

pale nectarine

LAST CALL

Make the object more central

than the topic –

bottle cap, coaster,

dilate the surface and

zoom in for clarity

It’s so hard

to have a

conversation

IN PLOVDIV

In Plovdiv I was

the most exhausted,

I could feel him

far away from me,

we climbed

the sun bleached steps,

white doves delayed

a woman in stripes

BETTER GIRL

Silent woman heart

goes wild

Vs.

wild woman heart

goes silent

we climb Boren

in your blue car

politely argue

about the actress’s

body, long and lean

in the brown 

beach light

some Los Angeles

mood

what radio station

can I catch the PSA 

on what's desirable 

these days

in the morning

I catch myself

before I’m clean

dry squished hair

silent woman heart

goes wild

Vs.

wild woman heart

goes silent

PEPPERMINT & SWEAT

It is easy

to be loveless,

just give me

a ginger carbonation

to line my guts,

a dust-free life,

a clean, clear tremolo

and nothing will ever

smell like it

has lost the fight

has lost the right

to live

again

JUST NOTES

Escorted life where I

feel brave just for

not feeling afraid –

that stagnant still water,

sky and ground

the color of

each other,

beautiful as a

subsurface:

sure, plum lipstick

and a black, sheer shirt

red nails peel back

green onions turn black

take advantage

of the empty

house

AT SOFIA CENTRAL CEMETARY

Leather jackets cradling carnations,

roses, big plastic bottles of beer,

rakia, fanta, all the solitary marches,

and me along their side.

The same man circles the periphery.

Bare head, windbreaker.

We chant izvinite as we pass.

Do I think love lurks in cemeteries?

Do I believe in love?

Is there always free parking at a funerals,

but not always free bathrooms?

Some gravestones have the simple ovals,

silhouettes in contrast, a people united

in good, strong looks.

The photograph of Stefan’s mother

head back, brown bottle.

Is that when Mitko decided to love her most?

Did he see the confidence

of her sharp, full swig

and know right then

she was the truth?

New groups arrive

at the Sofia Central Cemetary.

The women sellers hustle

bouquets in gentle tones,

the highway rushes past.

I will cry for my family

who I do not know how to mourn,

and for the stranger etched into stone

who leans against a white sports car

with a golf club for a cane.

ENDLESSLY

 
Re-read the messages to give myself

a sacred feeling

map new ones on paper

different that way

like Molly in church

through the doors at dusk

out the doors at dark

the city is

itself today

FOR CHINA THE BOY CAT

In the bakery

the little girls are friends

they talk about giving bread to

dogs – sometimes when I feed 

my amminals, it's quiet in the sun. 

I have humanity to thank

for the vial that contains me,

and animals to thank

for forgetting that it’s there.

In warmest January

Elise says so long

to China, the boy cat –

little macho love-bug

who peacefully patrolled

a house of human women,

a universe of

softest things,

still asking him

to stay.

NOT A STATUE

Take the block of me

and slide it against the

grater – what comes out,

what shape of shards

when will preoccupation

with this one body

fade – when will

it be switched out

for another,

how does

electricity feel

METAL KIDS

 
Beneath the National Army monument

the Metal kids slump on shady stairs

in different tones of tired cotton:

Guns N’ Roses, ACDC, Marilyn Manson,

a painting stuffed into a bursting

Metal Kid backpack,

purple and red

across cardboard.

They are Drinking Shumenko,

peeling gold foil back

from tall green bottles,

throwing it at the roller-bladers

and screeching.

My face is a furnace.

Please don’t do things

just to not disappoint me.

Please don’t disappoint me more.

Your girlfriend has a face

made of such fragile bones

that I am almost more in love

with her than you –

how could I not love

a thing that you do?

How can I explain

the extinguished YOLO feeling,

the trapped, deflated balloon 

to such a stoic face?

What does YOLO look like

in all-caps Cyrillic?

The Metal Kids switch ponytails 

to braid, smash bottles, 

screeching, slump lower 

against eachother's 

knees.

SINK OR SWIM

I come home drunk and eat chicken.

It’s too late for dinner but I eat dinner,

and in the morning will be exhausted

by the circle formula

of another poem

born from regret. 

Boring.

Armando laughed from the

upside down bucket

at the pistol hand 

I pointed to my temple; 

the couple who ran the donut shop 

in Rainier Beach were beaten, 

and we raise money on the internet

for their big black eyes.

Universally, I want to drink drinks with you

and take you to the water

to grant you with 

a new years resolution

of facing all your fears.

On the leather couch everyone

mocks everything,

it’s how we defend each other,

loser gang of tiny insects

looking for

a honey lake.

SHAKING FISTS AT STATIC SKY

Rolling recycling bin sounds like

drums in the morning,

old man broken dream

funneled into the somewhat humor

of a part-time dishwashing job –

or just the application

submitted via email

no sweaty hand-off,

no more cathartic

super 8 Parisian gigs

or dreamy denim legs pressing pedals

for the slacker panted sound boys,

who gesticulate just like

the orange vested men

who tell the plane

to fly