st. augustine, high school freshmen, and a storyteller by his fire.
pear-thief,
that puny boy's most shameful
secret is a naked grandmother,
and you told us all:
"i lose friends
like children lose their
teeth snatched out from under their
pillows."
esther, this is why you were crowned.
17.11.11
with a voice as big as the sea
autistic people with echo location.
minds fastening on great white
elephants.
sharks.
dear longinus,
sometimes the scenery shatters us.
stop thinking like a persian or
a prisoner or a tower or a bird and
think like a child of god.
no more wandering in the desert.
clear the dust from your eyes.
minds fastening on great white
elephants.
sharks.
dear longinus,
sometimes the scenery shatters us.
stop thinking like a persian or
a prisoner or a tower or a bird and
think like a child of god.
no more wandering in the desert.
clear the dust from your eyes.
pharaohs and faroes
like you said:
i'm afraid that the wind might
become my only home.
i don't know that i have the
strength to land.
to cling to the earth.
to keep from falling
into the sky.
could i sit here a while?
in your pews?
the wasps are building a
hive on my ceiling.
i'm afraid that the wind might
become my only home.
i don't know that i have the
strength to land.
to cling to the earth.
to keep from falling
into the sky.
could i sit here a while?
in your pews?
the wasps are building a
hive on my ceiling.
shibboleth
the israelites slew their
enemies and i lie awake at
night trying not to hurt
their feelings.
it's like when you're late,
and, dashing out the door,
your sleeve catches on the latch.
the nausea that comes from
eating after months of starving-
the flavour stabs, the inner
walls protest.
can you say shibboleth?
hollow, i can walk.
empty, i can breathe.
a dancing, somersaulting bellows,
a reed flute.
my belly is full of iron and you.
just leave me alone.
you presume.
the lord's people had human
enemies. they put them
to the sword.
enemies and i lie awake at
night trying not to hurt
their feelings.
it's like when you're late,
and, dashing out the door,
your sleeve catches on the latch.
the nausea that comes from
eating after months of starving-
the flavour stabs, the inner
walls protest.
can you say shibboleth?
hollow, i can walk.
empty, i can breathe.
a dancing, somersaulting bellows,
a reed flute.
my belly is full of iron and you.
just leave me alone.
you presume.
the lord's people had human
enemies. they put them
to the sword.
203-366-1454
cousin paulie called from connecticut
to say he may be senile,
and to ask about
the weather down south.
cousin paulie calls twice a year
or so, asking for josie or
for aunt marge. all his phone
numbers are written on scraps
of paper, hummingbirds flitting
around his desk, crawling into
his ears-
a dark warm cave, buzzing
gently with his sawdust voice.
flat sandpaper voice
with bushy eyebrows climbing
up and down its ladder.
"it's humid in the summer,
cousin paulie, but our winters
are much milder than connecticut's."
is uncle peter there?
do you have his number?
is this mrs. krumpol?
to say he may be senile,
and to ask about
the weather down south.
cousin paulie calls twice a year
or so, asking for josie or
for aunt marge. all his phone
numbers are written on scraps
of paper, hummingbirds flitting
around his desk, crawling into
his ears-
a dark warm cave, buzzing
gently with his sawdust voice.
flat sandpaper voice
with bushy eyebrows climbing
up and down its ladder.
"it's humid in the summer,
cousin paulie, but our winters
are much milder than connecticut's."
is uncle peter there?
do you have his number?
is this mrs. krumpol?
november 6th
still sunny on november 6th
cool in jeans and a light
sweater. recently, talking about
the weather has become taboo.
but i think it is a shame
to ignore
the sun
cool in jeans and a light
sweater. recently, talking about
the weather has become taboo.
but i think it is a shame
to ignore
the sun
5.11.11
george knox from 1849
pregnancy: one person
candy-coated
inside another.
there's always that moment when you can see through your hand.
a whole wall of miniature
file cabinets,
drawers shooting out from
my chest, the gun that
fires a flag, unrolling to
shout
BANG
i have a secret
will i ever even be the missing puzzle piece.
or just a one-piece puzzle.
that unsmiling daguerrotype.
candy-coated
inside another.
there's always that moment when you can see through your hand.
a whole wall of miniature
file cabinets,
drawers shooting out from
my chest, the gun that
fires a flag, unrolling to
shout
BANG
i have a secret
will i ever even be the missing puzzle piece.
or just a one-piece puzzle.
that unsmiling daguerrotype.
too school for cool
you're too much all together, all the sun's rays in one magnifying glass.
no more inferred body parts,
we're leaving these bagel shops behind.
keep my eyes open;
their lids are locked in our safe,
for sunday-wear only.
eyelids and that bonnet.
open and willing.
i want someone to prove me wrong.
no more inferred body parts,
we're leaving these bagel shops behind.
keep my eyes open;
their lids are locked in our safe,
for sunday-wear only.
eyelids and that bonnet.
open and willing.
i want someone to prove me wrong.
dream log
i dreamed last night that the boys were in the kitchen, burning the same pan over ad over again. the children, my little brothers and a tiny, brown-cheeked girl, stood in the no-man's-land between the ocean and the shore, my father and i watching as they raisined their toes.
a wave came- tall as a horse, a ceiling, the sky, tall as the atlantic is wide, but greedier than any of those- leapt up and swallowed them, dragging them, leashed, out to sea, sharp fingered. they were years younger than they are, and gone.
my father and i fell upon the waves, turning each one over, looking beneath, and feeling all the way into the corners. the little girl rose up in his arms and i tugged at the wings on her back, wrenching her about; they were a gift from the sea, not from heaven. she choked and i pushed her hair from her eyes.
my father climbed up to the beach, frantic, and the sea became a rug, soaked and dark green with black rubber shores. we ran our fingers across its surface, searching for lumps, pennies smothered beneath
smoke continued to rise from the oven, ruined pans all in a line.
a wave came- tall as a horse, a ceiling, the sky, tall as the atlantic is wide, but greedier than any of those- leapt up and swallowed them, dragging them, leashed, out to sea, sharp fingered. they were years younger than they are, and gone.
my father and i fell upon the waves, turning each one over, looking beneath, and feeling all the way into the corners. the little girl rose up in his arms and i tugged at the wings on her back, wrenching her about; they were a gift from the sea, not from heaven. she choked and i pushed her hair from her eyes.
my father climbed up to the beach, frantic, and the sea became a rug, soaked and dark green with black rubber shores. we ran our fingers across its surface, searching for lumps, pennies smothered beneath
smoke continued to rise from the oven, ruined pans all in a line.
scales and feathers
i've neglected my sketches.
dear little doe-girl, honking and gooselike, rifling through her ruffled feathers before the mirror, starting, turning, and out the door before i can even step foot inside. frozen in the door frame, nose inside and white cotton tail in the hall, watching me dry my hands, darting.
a bird, greedy for glimmer.
digging so deep wearies my shoulders and eyes, shoveling up history, a ditch into the future.
that's the reason for the small pond. you may be an uncomfortably large fish, but you don't have enough others fish to pick who you rub shoulders with.
dear little doe-girl, honking and gooselike, rifling through her ruffled feathers before the mirror, starting, turning, and out the door before i can even step foot inside. frozen in the door frame, nose inside and white cotton tail in the hall, watching me dry my hands, darting.
a bird, greedy for glimmer.
digging so deep wearies my shoulders and eyes, shoveling up history, a ditch into the future.
that's the reason for the small pond. you may be an uncomfortably large fish, but you don't have enough others fish to pick who you rub shoulders with.
morceau de concours
it's become a book of mismatched honesties, which means only that i am making a fool of myself again.
again and again.
if we had a home down here, we'd never want to leave.
this is all entirely uncrafted,
uncrafted and undrafted.
i have a sneaking suspicion they're only found in you: adventure and home.
i'm raking leaves into piles of mundanities.
should i be ashamed to knock at your generous door?
twin and opposite souls,
a town to append to my name,
i want to keep house,
pies curtains comfort
boats
the eyes of boys, i'll pluck them out myself
fresh from the vine.
everyone has come dislodged from something,
i feel as if i'll never land
don't let yourself rely on me, i may just fly away,
it takes years for me to nest in someone's heart,
centuries.
surrounded, i remain perchless.
i'm tied to the maypole's string,
round and around.
have we crossed the finish line into next year?
teach me to trudge,
i can no longer soar.
i want to see souls heavy with blossom,
like the moon,
half of their fullness shrouded in the dark,
weighty and round and ripe
for discovery,
pregnant,
the top,
the sky,
the pivot.
pirouette
again and again.
if we had a home down here, we'd never want to leave.
this is all entirely uncrafted,
uncrafted and undrafted.
i have a sneaking suspicion they're only found in you: adventure and home.
i'm raking leaves into piles of mundanities.
should i be ashamed to knock at your generous door?
twin and opposite souls,
a town to append to my name,
i want to keep house,
pies curtains comfort
boats
the eyes of boys, i'll pluck them out myself
fresh from the vine.
everyone has come dislodged from something,
i feel as if i'll never land
don't let yourself rely on me, i may just fly away,
it takes years for me to nest in someone's heart,
centuries.
surrounded, i remain perchless.
i'm tied to the maypole's string,
round and around.
have we crossed the finish line into next year?
teach me to trudge,
i can no longer soar.
i want to see souls heavy with blossom,
like the moon,
half of their fullness shrouded in the dark,
weighty and round and ripe
for discovery,
pregnant,
the top,
the sky,
the pivot.
pirouette
dear therapy... sincerely, erin
dear shan (unedited):
i left your office absolutely livid, and uncertain of the why behind my anger. all i knew was that i was furious, my fists were clenched, my teeth were gritted, and i was stalking around with mechanical marching knees. moving the way mountain rams do when they clash heads, running, leaning, falling slowly together, caught in the air, and then, like lightening, lashing out. my top half floated while the bottom was two needles stabbing holes in the ground’s fabric.
i threw off my shoes and coat and turned up the killers as loud as i could, the hot fuss album. it can never be played loud enough, and then i cried harder than i’ve ever let anyone see me cry, until the hollow spaces in my head were all cleared out. new york wasn’t a place of gusty crying, more of concealed little weeps on the subway or in corner cafes. show any weakness and the homeless men and rats devour you.
i cried hard enough that my throat sounded like it was talking to the windows and i could hardly breathe, like dogs who can only whimper deep in their insides. all i remember thinking was
i can’t keep losing. how can you ask me to unveil myself when the only people who care to look at the ones who feed off others’ nakedness, who want to stare while clothed and imagine their eyes are rearranging hurts and hairs.” the only time anyone has ever intentionally been allowed to see me in this state of tears i was the last one in the breakfast hall, the very last of a hundred, at eight o'clock, two and a half years ago.
how can i come alone and empty-handed to someone with a home and expect the scales to be even? they never will be. i’ll always be the orphan looking to sit beside the hearth with someone, but they’ll only ever have the space left at their feet or in the spare room. i’m just a puzzle piece floating along and everyone else is already in a puzzle. i’d never be anything but a tumor on the edge, and i’d rather be alone than that. i’m too hungry to be fed, i would eat anyone out of house and home and expect them to ravish my larders. no one needs to eat that much, a feast, and i would force-feed them every bite. they’re all already docked and i’m floating downstream.
we’ve all got something to orbit around and i’m just spinning in circles. i ache. it’s only been ten minutes since i could stop crying and there’s so much pressure in my head. i just found a card i wrote my mom for mother’s day when i was six, in malaysian boarding school. the front is yellow with a fabric flower on it and the inside reads, “dear mom. i love you, mom. you are the best mom. thank you for being my mom. thank you for not putting me in the orphanage.”
i left your office absolutely livid, and uncertain of the why behind my anger. all i knew was that i was furious, my fists were clenched, my teeth were gritted, and i was stalking around with mechanical marching knees. moving the way mountain rams do when they clash heads, running, leaning, falling slowly together, caught in the air, and then, like lightening, lashing out. my top half floated while the bottom was two needles stabbing holes in the ground’s fabric.
i threw off my shoes and coat and turned up the killers as loud as i could, the hot fuss album. it can never be played loud enough, and then i cried harder than i’ve ever let anyone see me cry, until the hollow spaces in my head were all cleared out. new york wasn’t a place of gusty crying, more of concealed little weeps on the subway or in corner cafes. show any weakness and the homeless men and rats devour you.
i cried hard enough that my throat sounded like it was talking to the windows and i could hardly breathe, like dogs who can only whimper deep in their insides. all i remember thinking was
i can’t keep losing. how can you ask me to unveil myself when the only people who care to look at the ones who feed off others’ nakedness, who want to stare while clothed and imagine their eyes are rearranging hurts and hairs.” the only time anyone has ever intentionally been allowed to see me in this state of tears i was the last one in the breakfast hall, the very last of a hundred, at eight o'clock, two and a half years ago.
how can i come alone and empty-handed to someone with a home and expect the scales to be even? they never will be. i’ll always be the orphan looking to sit beside the hearth with someone, but they’ll only ever have the space left at their feet or in the spare room. i’m just a puzzle piece floating along and everyone else is already in a puzzle. i’d never be anything but a tumor on the edge, and i’d rather be alone than that. i’m too hungry to be fed, i would eat anyone out of house and home and expect them to ravish my larders. no one needs to eat that much, a feast, and i would force-feed them every bite. they’re all already docked and i’m floating downstream.
we’ve all got something to orbit around and i’m just spinning in circles. i ache. it’s only been ten minutes since i could stop crying and there’s so much pressure in my head. i just found a card i wrote my mom for mother’s day when i was six, in malaysian boarding school. the front is yellow with a fabric flower on it and the inside reads, “dear mom. i love you, mom. you are the best mom. thank you for being my mom. thank you for not putting me in the orphanage.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)