#3

think of hardly anyone as that

non sexual bedrooms crash

big joker garbage town girls

spit grime crystallization of familiar

little buddy with cupboard fulla socks

being a lady finally just some lady

firm boundaries away from philosophers

thing when theyre not anymore

arms out baby dirtbag

deep bad and lot of stuff

great for it not to be garbage

arms out no control

1 through 7

1

the orange net means safety.  the orange cones mean rest.  the sky over the concrete wall suggests the ocean

2

coupled people using tinder for the first time

3

my aunt and flowers and my grandmother's legs

4

my grandmother's legs and shoes and a chair and newspaper

5

beatrice in the wooden rocker on the porch, wearing a checked dress and holding an egg

6

(part of) the bust of alexander skene

7

below, a white guy in a toyota stuck waiting to cross the road, caught digging in his nose for gold while he thinks no one is watching him

Domestic Drama

Cat vs. cat, man
tapestry of life plans
gossamer, great but
there just screaming
two ghouls you love
who love you in
animal ways but
not each other and that's
the whole world,
man.

The Testimony of Light

Light says

on the brick wall.


Says

on the plant in the window.

Says

through the leaves onto your page.

Says

on the floorboards towards your bed.

Old Get

Wondering, about the damp patch on the bedroom ceiling,
and the work be finished before my aches and pains find their focus on the next lap,
zero in on me and the damp patch dries.

Coat of Paint

I painted the wall of my room sunshine yellow
and the other three a deep orange-red.
I painted my new table top turquoise, and the salvaged legs blue, then my housemate's step ladder magenta and lime green.
I painted the back of my chest of drawers orange, and I
 built six new shelves.
one burgundy, one gold, and the last four yellow, pink, teal and peach.

I hadn't thought of the words "a fresh coat" until
I was mostly done painting the drawers of my old desk purple.
in my sweatshirt and pants now crusted with tones.
and I thought about the night we frantically piled the plastic tins from the warehouse in to my car
and the carload in to boxes, and the boxes in to my hall.
waiting for some next time we spoke confidently of coming.

It was the last night that felt that way- purposeful and clear.
Staying up much too late and laughing at our own haste.
I knew, by that point, how rocky these months would be.
I didn't know how many, though.
I was too tired to look very far ahead, and in retrospect perhaps I couldn't have beared it.

In august I spoke longingly of this christmas- the first week I could imagine no one would call me to ask a favor.
By then I might have cleaned my car. And I couldn't fathom that I'd feel nostalgic yet for urgency, for weariness, for the feeling needed, though of course I would.

I've been going slowly all month, and maybe this time I learned that you don't have to push for the pushing- it will come.
But it's not just about the heartbreak, now, it's this feeling at sea.
 I wonder if I'll ever forget how temporal certainty feels right now. The holding myself together,  embarrassed to relay on recent concrete memory. the now starting over, the fresh coat of paint.

stripping

A labyrinthine overcoat of sentiment and unwashed goats and lost love notes and dead end roads seen dropped at the scene of burst seams and bursitis, the worst dreams that incite us to walk on our knees while the earth underneath rumbles solemn, rumbles deep, crumbles promise, stumbles honest, fuck the majesty of madness, fuck the mazes that we weave to make ourselves as kings and queens. I was never a wizard and I've hated to jump since before I could dance so why did I wind myself up like a goddess? I was a child, so were you; not a monster, not a dead end, not a rapist, not a legend. They fucked us; fucked us up; sprouted us like beans in a styrofoam cup, tossed us on compost made of money and lost hope, now I'm broke up on big rocks taking off my overcoat,
a labyrinthine overcoat of
sentiment and
unwashed goats and
lost love notes and
dead end roads
seen dropped at the
scene of
burst seams and
bursitis,
the worst dreams that
incite us to
walk on our knees while
the earth underneath
rumbles solemn,
rumbles deep,
crumbles promise,
stumbles honest.
Fuck the majesty of madness.
Fuck the mazes that
we weave to make ourselves as
kings and queens.

I was never a wizard and
I've hated to jump since before
I could dance
so why did I wind myself up like a
goddess? I was a child,
so were you; not a
monster, not a
dead end, not a
rapist, not a
legend.

They fucked us;
fucked us up;
sprouted us like beans in a
styrofoam cup
tossed us on compost made of
money and lost hope.

Now I'm broke up on
big rocks,
taking off
my overcoat.

AT THE AFGHAN RESTAURANT

peppermint/rhinestones/Anna Karenina
all things tart in the mouth like
cherry scones crumbling
the papered words that stick to
the back of your throat flutter with heat
I see what you really think, glowing
gleed in the pit of your
belly

cornbread

i made us chili and cornbread 4 weeks ago
we didn't eat all the cornbread
so i left it on the counter
today i finally threw it out
it was a mostly blue-green color
beautiful in the most disgusting way
i can smell the odor of the blue-green mold escaping from the trashcan
i could bring it to the trash area outside
but it's late
and dark
and rainy
and i don't want to go outside

What You Get When You Eat Meaning

To write is to get to the bone of the matter
beyond the fat beyond the tissue.
Not to put the words to the thing.
Words are just the waste product.
What you get when you eat meaning.

LET'S TALK ABOUT THE APOCALYPSE

I can feel the prime of my life coming,

rolling up the coast like a wave,

mistaken for an earthquake.

I want to drive down to meet it,

coax it along sooner to this sweet spot.

I want to run side by side with it,

so in sync a bird could loop our middle legs together

and it wouldn’t make a difference.

but there’s something I want to talk about first:

where will we meet when all else fails?

when streets crash apart and

phones are no longer potent

where can I find you?

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