Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Sunlight Dancing on the Waiting Room Carpet

Please genuine ghost, please enter fearless curious reckless
Please dive, drift, swim with against these wild inner currents
Whooshing through the chambers, tobogganing through my veins.
And when you tire, if you are even capable of tiring,
take long leisurely naps on marrow hammocks, use my soft organs
as pillows for whatever you use for a head.

Please gentle ghost, retract your claws and whisper against
 the inside of my skin with your misty fingertips.
I promise not to expel or extract or exorcise.
I will not reach for the ouija, will not grill you
with silly questions about where you've been
or what comes next
or ask you to rap on the table and make it rise.
It is enough to know that you are twisting
like a wisp of smoke inside my chest.

Please generous ghost, if you must possess this body,
make it partial, make us partners, each of us taking turns
playing marionette with my flesh.
Slip into my torso like a cloak, twirl around, show it off.
I'm just your size, you may not wish
to ever disrobe. Which is good, because
I don't intend to ever let you do so.
I will allow my face to fill with yours.
Look out at the bright world through my eyes;
just please try not to block the light streaming in.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

You Almost Said

The moment you step onto her porch
the glass doorknob turns to sand in your grip.
You turn to go but the door is tranformed
into a sheet of water that collapses with a splash.
You wipe your wet shoes on the carpet,
then step into the wallpaper and stroll
through its velvet gardens
while she waits for you on the ceiling,
absentmindedly snapping licks of flame
from the chandelier, flinging them to the floor
to watch them shatter.
By the time you return, the moonlight is boring holes
through the plywood curtains. When she looks at you
the air in the room turns to marble, trapping you like a fossil,
filling your lungs with stone the moment
you open your mouth to tell her

Monday, January 18, 2016

How To

     First thing in the morning when you wake up, step down into that wet, stinking cave, that gaping orifice which stretches before you. If you don't, you will spend the entire day chased by its open maw. Its presence will inform every action you make every minute of the day without you realizing it. Go ahead; step into it, squeeze through. Its stench chokes you, you could drown in its sticky discharge. Puckered ass and lips, oozing eyes, rivulets of mucus drying into a crust around your wrists. Only by entering it willingly will you be able to pass through, it will only release you if you first embrace it. You don't have to like it, but try to learn to love it the way it loves you; unconditionally and without reservations to the very end.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Blackstar [epitaph for david bowie]



spider    asterisk    ink splotch    anus
eyelash    beauty mark     lip smack    
exploding fingerprints
black gloves dance up a thin white rope
the pupil expands to swallow the black night sea
taste the  salt, the stars
run your tongue around the rim
a hole in the floor     a ring in the sky     
 the black star, the black absence
of a star, the sucking lack, the vacuum of 
the open mouth
the painted eyelid, the crepe-draped glass, the handkerchief shroud
the mask behind the mask, the last fistful of glittery ash
one last sentence scattered, a meteor streak of words
ending with a world, a bottomless hole, 
a single period black with possibility.

Monday, January 4, 2016

Blood Lemon

Wiped the coagulated fox urine from the blade
against the rim of the tub. Shivered waiting
for the boiled milk to clot, for the fur to mat.
Gobbled aspirin sandwiches, washed them down
with Pepto Bismol spritzers, pulling shoelaces
from between your teeth.

Slice that bitter avocado, that bleached white lime.
Emit sweet yodels to evaporate my hostility,
my hesitancy; one bent backwards, the other forwards,
curled up like red cellophane fish.
No way we'll ever lay flat together
or be shuffled in the same deck ever again.

Play mumbledypeg in the wet ball pit,
kissing the cold steel for luck
Nautical rope halter top holding up
our water balloon breasts
covered in felt tip marker tattoos

Place that endless onion peel
like a laurel looping around my scalp
This dynasty was the Death by 1000 Cuts
and now they're all just cremation crumbs
tumbling down the hourglass.

Nylons filled with sand droop
between our thighs. Clumps of wet leaves
pulped like brown paper get trapped
behind our glasses. We try to remember the words
to the knife song we used to like,
singing it between clenched teeth,
sour notes dancing between our knuckles.