Of course I’ll have the birthday cake, observe Its boundaries, that the world is round, and the ovum. Of course I’ll take a place at the uncomfortable table, Imagine the slice of cake is my portion of island And no
Reverse Illia
They locked wings in the mass of your body alternately fascinating and revolting a pretty mouth amid the surgeon’s mistake thus we become an artifact impatient the plotting between flesh and its plaster cast a modest supplier of exalt the
Parentheticals
once a car called me a bitch through (accursed) horn encrusted mouth human rights (nightmares) occurring on my guard feel their invisible handguns scrape (metaphor) inside my shoulder an (with my son) impression, an (disquiet) inquiry (some laugh at the discomfort
Another High Temper
I learned to imagine that I am a desk lamp Under a capped sky there is specific light My children see me this way despite the evidence Sometimes I ask them, Isn’t it Strange that I am your mother? they
Witch Doctrine: Comfort
When your heart feels evil, don’t make it lie to you. Place your neck on the cold table and feel warm wind rising behind you, tossing the trees like a young woman waking up to thrash her hair with a
The Ghost
The first time Baby Girl had sex with Elvis-Not-Elvis, Z is there watching her. At first, he hovers above the bed watching her as she is on her back, her eyes closed and she’s so inside her own head that
Five Poems for Jack Spicer
1. You said, time does not finish a poem—& it doesn’t. Maybe nothing does. Maybe a poem is longer than your nephew’s hat. Maybe it’s hot as the coffee of god, or the cigarettes in Zion where the ash falls
Lyric Duet
i (detective’s notebook) Washed from day’s bloody shirt the cloud shook & strung across the river on silver pulleys which make the metallic noise of insects in the intermittent shudders of evening—in a spasm of escape subject leaves apartment, the
After Apologies (Part IX)
“You want to talk about addiction?” -Eddie Guerrero Truth is, I am an addict. The clouds took the city from us. The only thing the storm left us was debris of what could have been. Your
The Last Day of School
On the last day of school, it occurred to the old teacher as she walked home that she no longer wanted to give or receive any information she could not use. The poor couple at 4 a.m., who, the night