My Honeybee Dear Taylor,I spent 30 minutes as a single cell awash in pink and oh I bled myself out through my thighbones when I contemplated reawakening because oh my god is always a Saturday phrase and your wounds are too far away for me to hear your heart slutting itself around like a washing machine inside your chest repetitive and throbbing angst so you can shed 98 percent of your atoms every year and is your soul made of atoms and is your spirit made of atoms every proton and electron so vibrating and electric blue that you spat out the window of your truck and the velocity was too much and the bones the insulin oh the ratchet and the hyperbole a
Bah Bah Black Sheep I was born without knee caps in San Diego,smoking Marlboros; I didn’t look at anyone;I kept my eyes closed until you taught meto chase apples that the little girls tossed in the waterand crack my thighs against the concrete.You picked me up off a steeple, lookedat my shut eyes and called me a cad; you shook my hand and called me “sir;” you took my fist and licked away the cartilage.We grew faster in the springtime andbecame locusts in the fall; we ate their harvestsand drank their milk- it took months to digestbecause we were larger than Iowa;we were Russian in the winter; we wore red hats,and we cur
Xavier Loses His Teeth We were encased in ice, our perspiring noses numbed, became the thaw,more than your lips were ever my balmy summer.She pirouetted and sang even thoughthere was death and the threat of deathall around us. The perspiring, it continued;and we passed the weak, though there were fewfaint hearted, defeated, with the dilapidated maw.We barked and scavenged,but mostly we thanked the asphalt and the heavens that we were children, and starved, pining, panting like wolves, for the sorrow of strangers.
Hey You “There is a girl. . .” This is as far as I’ve ever gotten. “There is a girl. There is a girl. There is a girl who wears hollowed hearts as mittens. . .” That sounds dumb. Deaf and dumb and apricot colored. She thinks of phrases in terms of fruit. This is as far as I can go with it, I think. “There is a girl.” She is just a girl. She doesn’t want to become anything else. She doesn’t want a plot or a characterization. She doesn’t want to be diagnosed and analyzed and picked apart. She is just a girl. She fills many pages in just this fashion. She is a girl. She has gills, I think. She is a
The Trap Seven tethered damsels, demure And waiting--Tightly in white pods:They pluck their lips for sound, cacophony ofTrills and similes;They are brooding, brewing storms in their lovely vacant foreskulls, Blank as inviolate vellum withDulcet and trembling eyes, each lash a quivering arrowOf future decrepitude and the trapOf hominids, no less than what sacred oathsAnd lassitude strapping their wrists in sanctimonious enmity. Now lissome, passionate, then familiar like petrichor and so urged by gravityTo a more cumbersome shape and disposition For to weather what days ahead seem golden,Tarnish.No longer the FUCK ME FUCK
Whippoorwill Whippoorwill what streamed down in a beam of dust from the redwoodAnd kissed my satin earlobes round as grapes, Weeping the blanched tears of dying thingsThat thrashed about under the great oak upon which I perched,Fingers like silver spoons-or talonsWhat slipped about its face, said whippoorwill, and tattooed its waltzing criesWith sleep, a sleep that into every orifice seeped Of the wilting globe upon which we lapped the sweet loamy flesh, Our eyes unraveling to swallow up cornfields and ocean basins,Tiny goblets of soil and a banquet of rivers, we bathed our elbows And anointed our foreheads with the tiny hearts of drag
Untitled Our collar caves are flower beds, Our hearts the soil beneath.We tilled our breasts until they bledA single scarlet wreath.Thyme whistled through our graying teeth.Sage bristled from our lips.Up from our throats their bodies surged,And kissed our thin eyelids. Upon our souls the stalks had roots,And grew up toward our ears.What planted once but knuckle deep,We watered now with tears.
Call me Shiksa The Jewish men are doing laps in my coffee cup, Trying to teach me the value of a dollar, Of piety,Of calling me shiksa when they caress me.So, I only drink my coffee with that particular apricot brandy,And only when I can light my damp cigars By the wick of my kerosene lamp.The lampHas been a dusty sentinel in the basementOver several summers, So the men are turning into prunes, Waiting to give me lecturesAnd smelling of God.
Lavender Inside tents, the restfully awakeAre dandelion heads sobbing rain.Down, around the Muscatine vines and From under the weeping maple, In a cradle of humus and feathers and beads,The flowers are laughing and gray.
Babydolls “Do you recall the time we slew the dragon with a plastic cutlery set?”“Yeah, we had 13 ½ Coronas and were set up for a night of debauchery. Fuck, let’s got some sparklers. One time, I blew up a fucking fridge with a sparkle bomb. Not mailboxes like the rest of those goddamned kids. After the fucking fridge, everybody started blowing up bigger and bigger shit till this one kid got a church bus and took off his fucking arm. After that, they went back to mailboxes.”“Like a mass psychogenic illness?”“A what?”“The occurrence, in a group, of similar physiological symptoms (violence in
S She kissed her babies gently into the dirt,Paraded through the streets licking their skullsAnd crying orange peel from her collarbones,Pouring streets from the tar of her shoulders. She is homeostasis and the fellow droningOn side-streets and in the cracks of her teeth,Blackened and reeking, opossum, opiates, Sedatives, her fingers fringing his armor,Her lips an altar, pursed, open, split like a peach,Stilted, his words find her forehead a vast andTreacherous plain, smooth; the sky is her parasol.
He Ate My Gerbil Chapter un, deux, quatre, et six:Thereoncewasa c-a-t! this is what his tail looked like. I killed him with my bike. I told my mother it was an accident. She didn’t believe me. Neither did Ted.Ted is my mother’s boyfriend.@ this is what Ted’s mouth looks like. He likes to scream.Not because he is angry or scared.Ted is in a band. They don’t sing.I asked him why he was screaming.$ this is why Ted said he was screaming.He said his screams are worth millions.I asked him why we don’t have millions.He said my grandmother spends it all on cocaine. I said “oh.”I didn’t beli
Sta.sh
