hypergraphiashe writes in the empty spaces between the wordsbetween the world,world-weary fingers and toes and pengrips, knivesletter-opener swords, typewriter machetesarm-wrestling with fate and the universe on a piece of paper,computer screens painting faces with colorsstained-glass hyphenated hue-tint-shade gloryshe waits.she is patient.she's their patient, doctors and nursesemergency room, operating room, clinical studystethoscope childrenthey wish fervently to cut her open.her insides will be beautiful, they say,beautiful and pink and full of words.unwords, she says.she writes on her skin, on napkins and paper bagsinscribing fate and the universe in ink and pencil leadsharpened down to stubs, nails bitten shortpens running out, she is fallingstable decline, not irreversableyour insides will be beautiful, they say,let us cut you open with ornate scalpelsritual sacrificial tools from a dead religionand she makes mouse scratchings, cuneiformhieroglyphics, kanji, cyrillic
HOW MANY BABIES DO BUNNIES USUALLY HAVEdon't delete my browser history when I dieinstead, read it and write poignant poetry about the porn I consumedand how it juxtaposed with google searches about hormones and the color of pears
urban oceanThe wet roads are my urban ocean.Some men see God in the break of foam--I see God in the freeway.I see God in the spray off the backs of eighteen-wheelers hauling consumer garbage to southern Maineas I walk along the side with my boots soaked from puddles.The sea reflects the sky and Route 2 reflects the skyand the waves go shush, shush, and the cars go shush, shushand the clouds roll over,the clouds roll over.The wet roads are my urban ocean.
pale blue dotfervid preparation andup,staring into the screens,pressed into your seatthe huge granite hand of accelerationeven through the headphonesa roar like thunder,like earthquake,like a thousand waves:controlled disaster made by man,every hour of worka drop of sweatall the mental and manual exertionfor a lift the Earth barely thinks aboutfor a lift the Earth could sneeze in its spare timeand, Lord, we are in the airand, Lord,the jolts as the solid boosters and external fuel tanks bust off and abandon usand, Lord, the eerie silence,the lurid emptiness,the first view --the gasp from the pilot beside youas home comes into viewthis marble, glass of atmosphere,laid below you like a woman waitingand everyone you've ever loved or known down there,tiny,huge,too small to see,too large to believeyou turn to the pilot, but you say nothingbecause there is nothing you can say.
plumbumshe has a heart of goldand she, a heart of leadand she, a heart of uranium.and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.gold is confident in her worth,untarnishablebought and sold and bought and soldthe virgin whoreand lead behind,heart heavy in her chestguilt from bulletsand pride from pipesand anxiety from irreparable brain damageand somewhere off to the side treads uranium,tumors growing,white skin glowing,thin frame for a dense core.
poem while doing laundrynow, the sun sets a little later every nightpeople see me who have not seen meI radiatein privatesometimes in visible wavelengths,sometimes in deadly ones
frobhe held freedom in the palms of his hands like a bird,a small animal.
sonnet 130truth is,darling,i could live without you.i could live without your face, your hairbut lines i dragged out fingers would dry and crumble:wires and rust-chunks;words' depth absent.i could sleep without you every night,but what bare scraps of rest unfurl today would evaporate tomorrow;Morpheus could go before you in dreams,but every particolor swirl of breathwould lack the vividness of yours.i could live without your thoughts, yes,but my own would be the worse for it.i could live without you,love,but i wouldn't enjoy it much.
Vitruvius and the behavioral health expertmake yourself a Vitruvian manmake yourself an interior shot of Henry Gray's Anatomyrender yourself in nicely crosshatched, inky blackworkwith occasional dashes of red or blue for colorsplit your dry corpse at the neck,baring stringy tendons to the airperform a Y-incision on yourself so the doctor don't have tohand him a liver scarred not by cirrhosis but by something you once called lovestripthe way you said you'd never strip again
gossamer, and yousome people(the lucky ones)get songs stuck in their heads.i, on the other hand,am left with wordsthat beat incessantly againstthe confines of my brain.last week, it was "gossamer."i thought it was whimsical;that was pleasant.i saw the wordevery which way i turned: a gossamer veil of sunlight, a silk shirt like gossamer, a spider hanging by a thread of it.i hate the word now,with all its whimsy washed away;the hard g is too harsh and garishagainst the roof of my mouth,the double s too serpentine.it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,like some sort of linguistic anomaly,a could-be word that really shouldn't be.today, it was your name.(i never thoughtproper nouns counted, butevidently, they do.)i didn't see you as much as i heard you,somewhere,in the whistling of the breezeor the creaking of the hardwood floors.your imposing yet warm presencehovered somewherenear the nape of my neck.i admit that somewherein the recesses of my mind,i ho
Victory in defeatAmid the horror and the bloodshed, weeping,I dared to look at my loathed foe.He smirked and then he promised:“If you bow down to me,upon my word, itends. Bow to me,and go home.”I saidNo.
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680: car-comets in full spin, orbital lights his dreams planetary, saturnian - he almost sprouted wings that night and i cannot say it would not be beautiful; the palpations of downtown pumping luminous cells, coursing through highway veins and he, standing in the heart of his world visions galactic mind ecstatic - his feet began to lift just a little.9 20 13a few phone callsand a pair of
oh my archimedesthere is a mediterranean maelstrominside of me, and frankly these demented bones,are inventing a thousand ways to drownmy soul inward,the curves of my cartilage are overripe vineyardsfor myriads of apprehensions blossomingage, insipid sand charting the honeysucklingprogression of snapping parabolasthe tempests swat opposing ranks& I am afraid that I have begun to lose myselfbetween the roaring of my ears, torrent in a can, a soulless man - and what is a man without a soul[ I'm lighter than that] these mythical caverns of what once was my daysare condensing into dripping pages,I want the books to etch my ru
We Were All Going to be WonderfulKathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pearblack-haired, she wore it long, tied back.She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--silver and red, smoky and asleep;should have smelled like cardamom or clovesbut she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchenpeeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hippedher dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofawith his Reds game and his beer;men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.The suburbs were a gardenthrough the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.But he worked every day, by god he did,drove a truck fat with bakery goodsflaccid and without souls(whole wheat was a color not a life.)Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interferewith their summer afternoons."Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."She only grunted,
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their sizethey tumble through sharp mountains but they never, ever stopii. i can rush and pick up sediments and disperse them where i wishiii. i'm lying -i knew you saw it anyway,there's seaweed in my fingernailsand salt on my breath
Sixty-one SecondsIt took him sixty-one seconds to die. I counted.The beach was only a walk away from there, and the sun was beating down on our heads and our hats. We hid under the trees and laughed. We were in love, if that's what love meant. We hugged each other, as we walked down the burning pavement in loud flip-flops and ripped shorts.We were so close. I didn't know that that would be the last time I'd ever see him alive.I was nervous when I told him, that if we were really in love, we would be together forever. He giggled softly, and told me forever was a long time. I knew that of course. It was too good to be true, I thought. He told me not to think about forever, and we sat on the park bench, overlooking the beach. I leaned my head on his shoulder and I felt his smile light up above me, and I smiled too and closed my eyes. Everything was perfect, that moment there, it felt like forever, a good kind of forever.We didn't notice the shouting. We were too in love.Love can do that. Love is blin
OctoberI only felt autumn's presenceIn October, in HamburgA month after she was expectedCrisp leaves, warm lightGeese on the lawn by the lakeAnd lonelinessStretching through short days and long nightsHeralds of winter's comingShoes worn thin by milesI wander, a stranger, muteHead full, heart singingThe love of dark trunks and bright leavesUntempered by geographyOr language
the human syntaxmottledthere are carbon copies walking the streetscut/and/paste people whoderacinated from scriptured roots rarelyever realize that history is always unfolding right before themor that somewhere in the bubblingooze of their jurassic hearts a pasquinade has sprungan unintended flood of reasoningtonguesand merry mutants will come out to playin scorched supernova shadowswhile predation in the bio-mass[has]reached its all-time lowestas shown in graphs designed to demonstrateindemonstrable conundrums
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that draglike hooks through a river,turning dead thingsbelly-up on your shores. listen.i am listening. to name it lover,this ripening ache stretchedbetween us; to knowwhat it is you carry. youare a deep silence gardenedby ghosts; hangingfrom the hinges of a sprawledelsewhere. (they are herestill, pacing the long brimof your memory aroundto the long brim of mine.)i too have been drowning.if not by one stone,then another. the autumn quietof the bodyin bed. this language named skin,beast, temple, home. underwater,you open your mouth; amnioticvoid of unspeaking, horizontaltrespass from dark to dark.lover, i would kissyour ghosts. the spinning prayerof my mouth taking their poisoninto mine. secretsblooming there, blooming darklike strangers. we sleep now. dreamourselves against them, dancing. promisethe space of your breath worth morethan its abandoning, the static stainthat crawls you out to sea.low, circl
Shedding Stars IIyou were the sky i wasthe sea, with the sun - apart.in an offering of lightyou wore the night as icalled your stars down into me.
A Short VisitIn the country,the scarcity of humanity,our ability to stand outside and be alone,holds an undeniable appeal to me.Even in the cold, the quiet can bea great friend. The sun was out today,pleasant on the skin. The wind had subduedfrom last night's blowing. I sat in mygreat-grandfather's metal lawn chair.He kept this one outside the barn.Told me once how he found a meteoritein the chair. Said it hit the barnand bounced right down to sit a spell.Said it gave him a little shock,a space-spark he called it,when he picked it up from its resting spot.How old was he then?My age? I only recall an aged,bald, weathered, cowboy who still preferredto do his business in the outhouseinstead of the indoor room with waterfrom pipes. He told mehe knew when I was being bornbecause his knees itched from whereI would sit and his hands stungfrom where he would spank me.He and Granny shared a small house,blown by the horrid western Oklahoma wind,on a hill that overlooked their pond
Like Only the Stars are WatchingMr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted.“She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said.“In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said.Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.”“No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes across the farm.”“I don’t think she liked this farm as much as you think,” Kurt said. “We should take the boat and spread her ashes out at sea. She would like that better.”Lisa Marie huffed and crossed her arms. “Mom told me everything, and I can promise you that what she would want is to be here, on the farm.
I Dream of CeresA sci-fi pulp.The Cerean Anthem blared out of the speakers of the cell’s viewplate. Trandon was awake beforehand, out of habit. He wore sonic-strength ear plugs just so he wouldn’t have to listen to that fucking song. They were proscribed items for that reason and he had paid out the nose to get them, but they were SO worth it. After the jingle came the news. This was worth watching solely because of the buxom newscaster (he had heard that the reporter in the women’s cells was a hunky dude, but he didn’t know for sure). She covered the usual shit; buy Cerean, work hard, brush your fucking teeth so you don’t cost the government a pair of dentures.The work listings came on and he stopped looking at the woman’s chest and at the numbers that crawled up the side of the screen. “Due to mishaps in the Level 23 dry-docks,” -people died- “the completion time for the freighter Chalmar Truntz is behind schedule. Ceres Astrowerks is
Letter to a loved one, on losing a loved one.I want to tell youthat this grief is temporary,that even if you feel lost,you are not a ship adriftwithout a crew.But darling, grief stillsits heavy on my tongue andI will not lie to you. [Grief gathers at the back of my mouth and renders me useless on days that feel like the day she died, my limbs heavy, my heart sore.]Instead I am going to tell youthat grief is not the last thingyou will ever feel;there will still berumpled sheets and lazy smiles,your fingers will still findmy naked waist beneath the blanketsand mine will still fit neatly betweenthe knobs of your spine.We will still drink too much coffee,smoke too many cigarettes, and love withurgency but not with haste.I will sit with your grief,as you have sat with mine andwe will be okay.
a lie that tells the truthplease don’t write me as a ghost girl,all blurry lines and faded featuresthat caricature themselves into the mindsof those that think they see me--i am not a canvas.my life is not a blank sheet for youto paint your vision across,and i have no wires in my bones--you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the lightjust so,like a kaleidoscope of clever quirksand tragic backstories;i am written in the words i discardwhen i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,you can find me echoed back to youin my all time top five favorite movies.i am the way my hands hurtwhen i get nervous;i am the urge to speak italian,even though after a year of classes, i can barelysay hello;i am the calmness that hitswhen i smell cigarettes, even thoughi’ve never smoked,and i am the grudges that have lingeredbecause i forget to let things go,and i am the passive-aggressive commentsthat i should be sorry for, butnever really am.if you want, you can trace your pen alongthe cre
DivorceBefore that day,Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.I must have slept through their every summons:I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divanwaiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the gutslike a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaverto save myself in the next life.There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing lightinto the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let me aimthe water at his bucket, poorly, while he carved somethingotherworldly into stubborn dirt.I held nothing near of Sundays, nothing sacred, nothing dreaded,save for the occasional shameful confusionI would coax from my belly with dogged chimesof christmas bells haranguing the church congregationwith their infernal sequence, hanging like nervou
crosswords + dot-to-dots.two a.m,in your kitchen,lighting cigarettes on your stove.i'm thankful foryour addictionor your arms wouldn't beholding me close.time is as long asthis cigarette will allow -the present,the future,is here & now.with each flickof my wrist,my eyes do the same -from your clothesto your oceanic eyesto your sunken in face.you knowi want your taste -but ashes lingerin my mouth& your hand headed south& i guess we were playingdifferent games.i searched for the wordsto fill yourunsaid thoughtsbut you searched formy body's beginningto connect its dots.
not grief, but something like itmy grandmother's tartan bag sits on an upside-down bucket in the basement,full to the brim with little liquor bottles and cardboard boxesI go to do the laundry,pass it twice an hourand every time, just for a moment, I think she's visiting