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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| In October, tape a note on my door;
note doesn’t stick, so it falls on the floor.
Your five looks like an S; I trace over them.
What do I do until Sam at 5am?
I’ve time to be a ghost in the library;
nobody can see me
except the girl with a cart and her messy red hair,
but we’ll smile and never speak or share.
Your five looks like an S; I trace over them.
What do I do until Sam at 5am?
I’ve time to be a bindle in the belfry,
at midnight, the bells are ringing,
until the drifter lets go the ropes after twelve notes blare,
and he’ll pick me up and walk down the stairs.
Your five looks like an S; I trace over them.
What do I do until Sam at 5am? | | |
| Cycles are all wrong; circadian’s evidence that
gravity is lost, going in big circles.
We’re tides and the moon;
we’re planets in circles,
and we need to be crashing all into each other,
like this mess (in our heads)!
Neptune is just a volcano underwater,
and you’re too serious.
Cycles are all gone; Mercator’s projections our
bodies are flat, breathing in fewer dimensions.
We’re tides and the moon;
we’re planets in ribbons,
and we’re crayon lines on a kindergarten paper plate,
like this mess (in our heads)!
Neptune is just a volcano underwater,
and you’re too serious.
Like this mess, let’s obsess
let’s abscess, like this mess! | | |
| Shell electric, yell, oh yellow girl,
you’ve pearl swirls on your back, curl
bolts inside electrocuting me to you,
you to me, then shock echoes back, me to you.
Spells Antarctic, snow, oh snowbow girl,
you’ve sleet furled to your hair, twirl
blizzards inside glaciating us over, igloo’d,
you’re beneath me, chills fixed froze, me above you.
Swell Atlantic, rain, oh rainsloe girl,
you’ve breakers impearled along your face, hurl
beads inside deluging past organs and bones, blue
splashing out our mouths; butterflies spill me into you.
(love poem, by the way.) | | |
| Day; then
waking late, she dances
until she
trips. Then
staying late, awake, she noses
across books on physiology. She's
searching to know herself,
ourselves;
through us, her. | | |
| I expect the stars, the
dirt on the inside of a
cement truck tumbler, should
pause at night for me; I
paused. Nope:
"Man, we're pretty late
today," I say aloud. Just
me. "We," it's grammatical, not
schizophrenic or MPD. Saying
"I" or "You" aloud to
me? -That's- crazy.
At the job, The Lab, I
run tests; it's six-hundred samples. The
Lab gets fifty dollars for
each one, gives me
an eighth-dollar (maybe). I
listen to poetry in my headphones.
When I can.
"D'you know where a girl could
get some stuff?" Stuff?
I ask.
"An upper, maybe?" She's
a new temp. Don't you have kids?
I ask.
Her artery closes; I
hold her hand on the cement floor 'till
the ambulance comes.
I'm renting a room; old
house, third floor. In
an earthquake, the
dogs won't even find me. So
I make coffee, read
something good (Le Guin or
Block), try to sing, play guitar. All
at once. Sitting up, I'm
unconscious.
The poets from earlier talk
in my sleep. Their words, not
mine, but
about me.
I stir. Write it down. "We
should brush our teeth,"
I say
aloud. | | |
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