Eggs for Breakfast



I just want to love you,
he said
And make you eggs for breakfast
Louise smiled and believed him
And as she sat
in her car still running,
she knew he did love her, really.
Really: a love so real it
could not really be called merely love
but something much closer to
Emptiness,
a hole that swallowed her whole
as the wretched cradle of night
enveloped her like
the ratio of exhaust to oxygen.

He said a prayer she got home safely
but when she sat in the darkness,
in the driver's seat,
the driveway unlit
(unlike her cigarette)
she swore to herself
she would never sell out to hopes
of marriage or kids,
She sat alone
and in her mind saw his teeth
Flash like metal.

As she uncorked the bottle
all she could think of was
the time her father fell down
the stairs, drunk,
When she was a child,
riding on his shoulders-
a Bitter reminder
of what it really means
to aim for the top.
She chased the little pill
with Bitter memories
and heard his echoed warning,
Let go of the past
only the past wasn't the cause
of the burning in her gut
or the oil-slick stains
on her cheeks.

Stop brooding,
he told her
don't ruin a perfectly nice evening
and when he went home
to a warm home full of old friends
and a quilt Mamaw wove
just for him
She let go of her faith,
Watched it slide, scurry away
Quickly into the cold like a tiny,
lost puppy.

No one is around to assign blame,
or guilt
for expectations
that are futile in the wake
of life's open eyes,
Sleep now,
her mother said
and forget
that the only one
Worth depending on
is scrutinizing your
trembling hands in the mirror.

Dec. 1, 2010


Today is my dead grandmother's birthday
But I found myself not feeling much like her
In my car, this morning,
I reminded myself much more of my father.
Instead of bringing coffee from home,
poured purposefully
into my "eco-friendly" travel mug,
I stopped to buy cheap black coffee
from the little Mexican food joint
on the corner,
the one with authentic dishes and
a small fire burning in a
miniscule wood stove in the brick wall.
I drank from a white styrofoam cup
that contained far too much coffee for
one individual in one sitting,
even on such a cold morning.

Days like these I am painfully aware
of the time that passes,
before our
very eyes like the lives
of loved ones
or the breath between our lips
as children blowing out
birthday candle flames,
still unaware that wishful thinking
is only prolonging the inevitable.

I tried to materialize

you singing to me,

tonight

in my mind

Only to realize my imagination has

lost it's touch

and become more old maid

than mermaid

or maybe

I just can't remember

what that's like,

anymore

Sinking into the softness of

devotion

the lull of Trust

like sleep.

Slowly the rain,

the wind the wine,

slowly

Breaking off in pieces,

this is how I come to learn

Myself again.

And in the mirror

the bruises bring me back

to the

Cycle of existential love

that turns its back

each time I bear my

Boiling blood.

And if I could pick up a guitar

right now

and play you what's inside me,

You would understand,

you would

love me right until

both our eyes were red

with it.

Eat Drink and Be Merry

Raise your glass, he said

Because all our worries

Tonight, their meaning is empty

Dreams like dying stars,

Memories fading into grayscale blurs and

Most importantly

Tomorrow is nothing because

We may never make it there.

Life is short but sweet, yes

Like a summer dress or

The hope love brings.

When you were young,

Everything felt much softer

Home was a lot closer and

It all looked a lot more like

Jesus.

Tomorrow, we die.

by the knife

help, i'm alive.

I'm still alive in here.

I want out.

this suburban war beats hotter

when the weather turns its cheek

something unspeakable

and we've started a war

neither of us can win.

so I stumble

only the wall here to

catch my drift

can you hear it beating? crumbling.

like (beneath) a hammer.

my liver is crawling with

the toxins of a past

holding tight enough to choke,

but it's okay.

It's okay.

lack of breath keeps me going.

the hard-edged touch

of my own hand,

not the caress of another

to bother with now, never.

the distance is nothing new,

me and you

we got this down just right

tight and tighter

until it snaps and we

fall away. apart.

the insatiable needs

crawl inside me and vomit

stale pleas,

mutual self-destruction at best

and now i select my future

from a pile of dusty closet cards

that remind me of false hope.

false prophets that smell like

my father

and run faster

than these dry eyes can blink.

the puppy sleeps and inside

inside i am screaming for nothing,

just screaming to hear myself

make noise

so i know

i am still alive.

we swallow hard such harsh words

and i never told you but

that night

i was testing your heartbeat

by the knife.

A White Winter Hymnal-

Is that so much to ask?

I was following the pack

All swallowed in their coats

With scarves of red tied around their throats

To keep their little heads

From falling in the snow

And I turned around and there you go

And, Michael, you would fall

And turn the white snow red as strawberries

In the summertime

lyrics by Fleet Foxes

Tonight

Wine sours in my stomach

and I finally see it clearly,

We are all the walking dead.

When Love is Not a Song

I have found myself

In this place many a time

Before today-

Sipping peppermint tea

Too hot to soothe

a cantankerous stomach

Incapable of ease,

Watching the chemicals

From my faucet pool into

Oleaginous patterns

Atop the steaming surface

like translucent age spots.

I am so tired

of getting myself off

Simply because I crave

the release of endorphins,

Holding my breath until

I become lightheaded,

Disoriented in pretense

of being a child again,

Weightless

Careless

Breathless

On the trampoline instead

of an old woman

Impulsively seeking

Some sort of repletion.

I come back to myself

In shame

And recall those words

From such a strange movie

to relate to:

I just wanna feel good.

Here again, it seems

Vicious cycle of lost

Mouthfuls of desert sand

Parched

and craving something

No longer recognizable

as real or right.

These stones once built villages
and kingdoms,

Impenetrable fortresses that

Offered protection

or the guise of it, at the least.

Today we cannot even

Afford the luxury of

A facade-like strength.

Now we are living in metaphors,

Living in wait

Or vain

Or because

We have no choice in the matter.

1~October

The Cage

I wipe the dust from your skin

Map the points,

Thumb and tongue

You push me down and

The bed swallows us then

Spits out

A disheveled, tangled

Thing

All sweat bared and raw to

The touch, as one.

Light will one day

Split you open,

Even if your body is

Now a cage

The metallic warmth a lot like

Skin, Beneath my hands

Smooth and endless,

Strong.

The Sex of Self Pity and/or My Cursed Writer's Cock Crock of Shit

I am not that kind of writer.

I am not one to sit around and dream up

Witty phrases, all smart-ass half smile

And punctuating gestures

Sarcastic, extended metaphors like

Riddles that make the whole room

Cackle and take another swig.

You drag your cigarettes in the dark,

Light the pipe and hastily scribble

The next snicker-worthy verse about

God or Jews or being drunk,

Such flamboyant enlightenment you bestow

Upon these ears with your wisecracks

Of justice or Symbolic thought,

Societal cultivation.

No. That is not me,

Although it is easy to pretend to be

Something so supposedly seditious

Yet utterly and unconsciously trendy.

I can use big words too,

You bastards,

I can slam and roll my words around,

Cradle, Stroke them in long strides

Like eager clitorises

Awaiting the right moment to explode

All over the face of a beloved.

I, too, come home with a head hard-on

Full of inspiration,

Wine drunk and ready to rage or rumble

Or move mountains and shit,

But instead of

Furiously finger fucking my keyboard

Or typewriter or pen and legal pad

Moleskin or leather bound journal

Full of cocktail napkin dribble

Or whatever the fuck you jerks

Use these days,

Instead of rubbing my

Cunt of unconventional creativity

I sit around and brood,

Feel sorry for myself and

Eat junk food until I make myself gassy.

Yeah, it's true, I'm telling you

I wish I was more like you jokers.

If only I was capable of trying

That hard at being effortless,

If only I could stop being such a

Pansy-grazing fool,

Maybe even take things

Less seriously, learn how to laugh

At myself and poke fun, Hard,

Over and over and over

At everyone else in the world

Until they scream in protest

Against those ticklish ribs

And kick me, Hard

Right in my tight,

Puckered,

Asshole.

An asshole,

Yes, I can be that too

Just like the rest of you,

But I still, for the life of me,

Cannot write like you.

2~October

A Jesus Poem

This day was made for you,

He said

And when he placed his hand

Over mine in the car

The warmth of it against the

Cold of my own startled me.

I suddenly knew this was

Symbolic of our entire relationship,

Me being unexpectedly moved

And healed, Saved,

By the steady glow of his

Infinite compassion.

He has never ceased offering

Himself up, Sacrificing everything

For the sake of others

His huge and heavy heart

Bears the excruciating weight of love

No matter the cost.

He is the only man

Who has never let me down,

Who has never abandoned me or

Wounded me with harsh words,

The only one to see and cherish

Each and every

Sliver of my beauty

No matter how fragmented,

Regardless of the haze of life's

Aching endlessness.

He has supported and encouraged me

Unquestioningly

And he is the only man

I have ever loved so fiercely

Yet never touched sexually

Or called my own.

For years this man

Has been my savior,

Not in strappy sandals

Or a robe of white,

Nor with hair long and flowing like the

Water that he was said to walk on

And a beard made of gold,

But in brown scuffed boots and a

Matching thrifty jacket,

With a singing voice that would

Make any right-minded woman swoon

And fall,

A stoic and sarcastic nerd

With the capacity for more wisdom

And skill

Than he could begin to know,

With soft ears that

Go on for decades,

An unprecedented benevolence

That knows no bounds at all.

This beautiful man,

He is not an integral subject

In a revered Book of myths

That people around the world

Have relied on for centuries

So that they may believe their

Lives are right,

He is not the Son of God

Nor is he a holy Jewish prophet

That may or may not have

Performed miracles

Ages and ages ago.

He has believed in me

Even when I did not deserve it,

And his loyalty and devotion

Are something I find to be

Quite worthy of the maintenance of

Blind faith,

Far more so than eternal salvation.

This man has taught me about

My own strength,

And to me

That is much more powerful and

Substantial

Than any crucifixion or resurrection,

And to be quite frank

I do not believe Jesus died for me,

For my sins,

But I know this man would

If only I asked him.

Pretty Bird

I remember you.

These days still

From far.

Your wings

Spread young and wide,

Lustrous black beneath

The playground moon.

Every breath was a

Full one,

In the woods as children,

In a tree house with wings

And memories like dreams

Soaring painstakingly.

Your face was stitched in

Those leaves of color

As though you painted each

By hand.

Before the wind took you up,

I remember you.

I remember being so afraid,

I was so terrified

Of wanting to remain

In one place.

Away from the rain storms,

The little holiday villages

We imagined as Home,

The long drives and

Rooftops, or

All of that laughter

We built around one another

Like glass.

The best silence is in knowing.

Wherever you go,

Wherever you land.

More Full than Not

Last night you saw inside me

And when you opened your

Soft mouth-flute

And I heard your

Cozy sounds,

I knew I would never leave.

The first time

I heard your laugh,

Old man

I knew it would not take me long

To turn you back into God.

If someone asked me

To put you into words

I would choke a little,

Stumble and double over

and say

Such an exquisite taste

and

Every time you touch him

You become lighter,

More refined.

Bright-Eyed Night

I once knew a man

Who had nothing and did not care,

What he wanted

Was all he felt,

And by the dusty streetlamp light

That filtered through his blinds

At night

I loved everything he was,

I loved him because I thought

Him to be powerful,

Strong.

One man deep he laid me down

And showed me I was a woman.

Those days my eyes were

So full of needles, So full

Out of focus and foolish but

Bright.

And he folded his body

Above mine like clockwork,
Hot eager leaves
Spread wide and holding
Hands moving fast.

Wishful thinking did not

Yet exist, I was too

Busy

Giving myself away

In the night on an armchair

With a cigarette

And a taste for excess.

He, always staggered by
His own luxuriance and
I, never for lack of youthful fervor

And desire,

The desire in my pores dripped

And slithered

Off my skin to soak into

His,

And all I remembered,

Wanted,

Craved

For so long was the heat.

It burned away the ache of day,

Those nights,

They paused

The relentless march of age,

Of Reality.

Soon the heat turned to steam and

Burned off everything.

Burned off us both like blisters,

Peeling

Little flakes, falling away.

I woke up one gray morning,

Makeup still applied and smeared wide

From sex

I crawled onto the cold tiles

Of his bathroom while he slept,

I looked at the tequila bottle

With its missing cap

And mocking shine

And I knew he was not strong.

I cried and I knew I was weak,

That I was far too young

Too young to want to grow up

So fast,

So fast by his pudgy hands.

I wanted to grow older

Overnight

Through believing strength was

Loving yourself so much,

You did not care about wanting,

You just felt whatever you

Wanted to feel.

Too young.

Too young to think

I knew shit about

Anything,

Too young to be "strong,"

Because I wanted everything.

And on this night

I have nothing,

But I do care.

And I know now more so than ever

What it means to love,

To grieve

To grieve for the grieving,

But still I am weak

Because on nights like these

Still I envy that man,

I envy him for having no excuses

For his weakness,

For not knowing better,

I am so much more than that

Yet I continue to ache.

These nights the heat has fled

Age has finally caught me,

And In my bed are

One thousand

Emptied bodies

With hollow eyes once bright,

Waiting for the flesh to be picked

From their cracking decrepit

Bones.

Black Moon Swan-Woman

A riddle of magical gems and

River shells, She is sprigs of rosemary and

Brass wind-chime earrings with those

Beaded, ornamented limbs and

Caramel skin

So lightly draped beneath the burn

of Harvest moon.

Wild mane of copper fire hair

Her deer doe eyes take you in

Squeeze madness sugared into your

Blood and spit you out

Something else entirely.

Earth goddess roams the

Apocalyptic shadows that

Even the most

Rational and scholarly of minds

Hide

And seek,

Unknowingly She is such a

Stunning beast,

Culture wars fought and raged over and

She alone is

Such a seductive and perfect destruction.

Glowing and gold and black and

Feathers which so gracefully match

The water's dangerous depth

Revealing the endlessness, the

Inevitability of a sex

As beguiling as death.

You know her by her fragrance

She claims lovelessness as her own

But she is never less than love nor

Is she worthy

Of anything but.

Her teasing flames movelessly cross along

My skin like leaves shading,

The luster of her shoulder blades and she is

Moonshine throbbing

On body and on high.

She is my own personal and

Beloved

Sorceress of high summer or

September,

October,

the Fall of one thousand autumns and

Even in winter her colors do not shed.

She is where I flee

These nights that I do not know myself,

I know nothing but my urge to run.

Offshore

Sometimes my dreams are laughable upon
Waking, illusions that fool me
Into the romance of heartbeats and breath
Oh, the cleansing breaths
and ribs that feel and crave touch, but
Please remember me,
Happily
With bruises on my pelvic bones,
the time we counted
Every car passing
and almost got caught in
the kitchen.
Remember me fondly.

Sometimes I think I weigh too much and
Read too little--
but who has the time for such frivolous,
Joyous delights?
Don't let me down, old friend Doubt,
I will self-pity until
the rooster feathers roll out
With the tide
and I have nothing else to
Rouse my brief REM sleep of rainy mornings,
Don't let me down.
The nerves have departed me and
When the light leaves my windows
I see my skin the best.
Flushed and bubbling,
a lot like swallowing.

Sometimes we can't find our swords but
I like those nights the best,
I've lost myself one too many
anyway- Generic and dead,
Dead energy. Swirling wild in the
Hill-country heat, an invocation of
Those too weak
Too weak to wake, too weak
To die.
How far is the sea?
Maybe if I don't stop
Running I will find the shore
Before my intestines erupt.
No one knows anything for sure,
They say
that's the appeal
But as far as my own certainty, or
Our collective integrity goes,
It was that day a molding
Piece of shit in the sun.

The day it finally rained

I saw an old man with owl eyes

Today outside of the market

A nearly blind security guard

With a canary colored poncho

The slow movements of his head

Traced his erstwhile grit in duty

He not-quite smiled as I bustled by

Nonchalance a plenty

Thoughts in waste and a hands-on mind

I nearly flirted with him

Just to scavenge a gentle glow of pride

Because no one does things like that anymore

No one takes the time

Onward toward my destination

Under an electric crackle sky with a finger sack

I wish now it had gone differently, I wish

I had turned back.

Convinced

Complacency

is not fine by me, is not

some catchy tune whistled

softly by my ear, and yet I

succumb to the fall

of my own blows so much like,

as yours.

The hammer crash into the walls

breaks thin plastic cracks into

my own

stretched tight skin,

Only we are so much more

than this

but we let it go.

Too much in one direction

not enough in the other.

We are better than this,

better together and when it all

slips away

We are not perfect nor will we

ever be, but our love for

one another is enough.

Isn't it?

One taste

How all this would vanish, evaporate,

if I didn't clutch at it, cling to it,

still remember

some twinge of glory.

The spurt of the first of

the month, almost,

so new with

Indirection and symbols and

weariness and chatter-

Some guy longing to

escape

and walk the line so viciously

(the sour stupidity of desperation,

always in search of more,

excess)

he drank embalming fluid.

Rotting in the ground and

seeping into the underground sources

of life,

always the death and

the poison.

Fucking arsenic sludge.

Quick growth in brain size and

capacity,

or an instant-evolution,

so quick it left

the slimy crevasses

riddled with tumors.

Immaculate Conception

Tonight you compared

your greatest talent to

William Faulker, and afterward

I asked to bear

your children

only to quickly realize there is

far too top-heavy a ratio

of destruction to creation,

of fleas to clean skin,

of blood to love,

I have been losing faith

in the human race

not to mention

my own compassion and

sanity.

Your words in my mouth,

my words on your page,

it's all the same

but nothing is lasting,

that's what they say, right?

Maybe we are all better off

doing what we know best,

stick to selfishness and

the blind side,

screw the rest.

Faith and endurance and

all those mumbo-jumbo myths

and shit.

A new respect for history

but a hope with definitions

as subsisting as

heaven and hell,

Shriveled and melting

and utterly flawless in the

haze of fear.

I reach out and touch cold concrete.

More countries with dirt for water

and hours of walking to reach

but me, I only scream

for the loss of something

which existed only because I dreamt it so

to begin with

Not tangible enough

to hold.

Like these agonizing

heat-waves my whole body

bears, we roll harder

until we thunder into one

another

Never pushing hard enough

or backing away or truly listening or

allowing room

to breathe.

I asked you to fulfill desires

that I know only as skin-deep,

I nothing of the objectivity

of your revered antiquity,

my requests are empty

and the only truth is my need

to hit the blue highways

and flee,

I nearly bought a plane ticket and Yes

I am a coward.

Together in near-fall

like wars

that I probably

seem to know nothing of,

ruled by emotions and governed

by nothing but nonsense

or something.

who am I kidding?

This is Texas and this

fucking boat is sinking.

I am no mother.

I have loved you for

so long and only now

do I realize I hardly know

you,

I know barely

anything

at all.

Little Red-Fox Dog

Green tea steaming

on the pier where my dress

sticks to my knees with sweat,

Our casual conversation about

Pelicans

falls in and out with the waves but

your eyes betray where your mind

drifts to these evenings

Even through the aviators.

Your baritone

makes the

Styrofoam in my hand

vibrate, and there are

little purple flowers in the dunes

Now it's almost time to go.

My uterus

is so full of dead tissue

like broken shells.

My mother

projects her emotions

through speaking her pet's mind,

Aloud

Geri is sick of the beach

and has had her fill, now

...an old dog's last dying wish.

Everything is dying.

The gulf is screaming at the horizon

and the Oil

streaming down my cheeks

is like the prime black blood

slithering in my sandy veins.

Watch the tires spin at

short departure and burn along

the pavement,

Imagine all those rocks crushed beneath

the weight.

...Like a family torn apart by

Selfishness

staring out the window and

salty everything.

Tangling,choking,drowning

choking

choking

in waves crippled by,

gravid with seaweed

Red like the fresh blood

the sea bleeds before

it turns black, shrivels and

croaks.

(Toads in the road, I slept while you drove home and killed them.

One by one. Ashes, ashes,

sand.)

In my dreams I keep choking.

Teasing myself along the thin-edged

razor of endlessness.

The Vietnamese family digs holes

for small colored clams,

minding steadfast the task at hand

A family of go-getters

Simple, mindless and all

so genuine/Easily pleased that

it appeases me.

I suppose we are all collectors,

of something.

He does not count these moments

like helmetless

motorcycle deaths,

but I know he remembers

the exact shade of the water.

Beans

On a day that may or not exist

My head laid embedded in the

lavender and cream unicorn pillow

suspended on fleecy dreams and

I was so young

I may not have been born yet

My brain was a second thought and

still forming, stirring round as

the beans downstairs were stewing and

smelling so savory and toasty

in their stainless steel kettle pot

or something quite like it invisible

to my little closed eyes, my senses

were quiet but I was not unaware

My own contentment was breathing

steady simply because because back then,

on this possible day

I was to wake, be born to, and

dream of the smell of fresh beans.

What more could one need?

The lightweight

Sometimes my silence is mistaken

for a stodgy sort of temper,

a wary and guarded distance held

a tractable detachment

And even to myself

I appear [then become] disinteresting,

A bore

and my,

Such sullen distaste have i

But I am all or nothing

once you crack that lining,

inside

I am more than something

plain-assailable

or so easily defined

My tally is a jolted scribble

ribbon slash of passion across

a page that becomes your canvas,

And

my mark stands wild and strong

apart from all those silly patterns of

rigid lines

When you strip me out

of those stifling bits

necessitated and contextual,

try me on as naked

wash the earth full smudges from

my face

From beneath I reach out

and startle you

I strike you down hard

to a place where my comprehensive

silence reigns

only

[and] for the briefest of instants

I swallow you into me

and all that Creation

is transparent,

beset.

Weightless.

Compost grinds

You and your daffodil face,

like a horse, you said

about as oddly graceful

only more well-composed

but you don't know how I see you

between the low-hanging moon of

midnight blue expanses and framing

branches

Together we are shedding and

the dough is rising with the

heat,

mounting before it escapes____ with September,

growing sweetly

sticky. thick. damp

into something neither of us planned.

There is no illusion of control now,

we are folded into one another

and baking, full and hot

our fate or

something as equally

pleasing to the ears.

You and your half full mugs

of old coffee, stagnating in the

bathroom of Mexico flair

I watch you in white with

such a perfect painted bicep flexing

in the light softened

by weary eyes

A paper department store lantern

that has never shone as such,

sending a new glow into those fine-tuned

features like the gilded water

of an ancient wishing well.

New and

nearly full to bursting,

sleeping in my bed as the coffee grumbles

in the filling pot

You are the weight and

immeasurable wind

that leaned the precarious scales in

the right direction.

The teeth of small sharks are

much more sharp.

I hear the fluid rise in her throat

and I swim in the other direction.

Pray for the safe haven of familiar arid desert in the Sudden downpour

Only child, Only season

Blood coursing through and hammering louder and Swelling higher and

Smothering out the light.

Brakes squeal, My heart

is liquid thunder

Harder pumps and round lumps

of indiscretion. Black Coal eyes.

The chest pains of panic

and the obscure coughing fits

and the repeated indigestion of indecision

and the reminders of old sickness

and the fear of perdition

flushed fast with the filth of addiction.

False perception of alone

You say I am learning to grow

Up.

Look up, you say

But I know the full story

and this is what happens

when the crumbs make the transition

from food to

Dirt.

The ground is so much more solid

beneath my feet

so pregnant with growing pains

and the sky is only touchable

when you aren't afraid to fly.

August

I leave the door open.

It prefers the lack of closure,

Despises the sensation of being

Part to a whole

It prefers to swing by its hinges

And scoff at my smelly melancholy.

It creaks and mocks my old woman moth lips,

My little girl nerves with gnat-like stature,

The movements that slither slow and sag as

The daylight fades

The only real feat of this heat.

I should choose to be caught in the rain

Instead I shrink away and

Avoid touch eye contact.

Outside the wind creeps faster and howls in hot

Bursts of breath like the second orgasm

And inside I am screaming

Caught beneath

These falling trees

My bowels are twisting, begging for release from

The burn of my mouth,

This wretched thirst.

I am tired of waiting and

Tried of saying something for the sake of nothing

And tired of staying dry, so tired of

The need for perfection and disrespect for silence.

Outside the cars creep by and sigh in recognition

Of an era drawing its blinds,

The rain starts again and their headlights flicker

To life

To something bright for someone else

But me,

I am building a shell and crawling inside

Until all the trees are knocked down

In the wake of October.

Ashes,

Ashes,

We all fall around.

Lately it is consuming.

A sleep that falls hard and

slams flat into the slates of

shuttered eyelids,

they hide the choking cry

of these brief alien nights.

The onset of decay, the first leaves flee

tread lightly

and shiver, fluttering sweet to land

and lie flat, static along

those cool tiles

The only reprieve

from a summer that bleeds us out

Dry

and empties its energy like thick sewage

onto our slicked skin.

The sweat is the only reminder

we are still alive.

And dark was the night in the

suburbs, when we slid naked

through the shadows down

the stairs and inhaled the ashes

from one another's chests,

Your eyes of fire do not see into me

deep as the autumn

when you go there, go,

but I will let it go.

Tense measurements of time that

barrel into such splintered bones.

If i was pure, i would hold it close

to my chest and run with it

But I am not, I am afraid. I

will lie alone tonight and in my mind

dance

You dance

dead and hot and old and droning on

in summer,

summer of nothing, of a near birth

that shrivels in memory

out to sea tossing and wild

This cresting ache.

I have the metabolism of a bull.

My eyes harden like horns

and sharpen, then fade when

the exhaust pipe pops

and shrieks in protest of the temperature.

I put my shoes on

and trembled for the first time

my memory could touch,

but you did not come.

The walls shook

and the storm invaded

and dissipated with the sound.

49




Surely
we have created everything with fate.


On days like these,
it all falls together so effortlessly.
Days, they fall suddenly
like a grandfather's 81st birthday,
like melted cupcakes and
broken down vehicles and
sudden sex on dirty sheets,
like a whistle stop red wine and
a small puppy's subtle cry or
a 49.49 in an herb shop,
the cardinal number squared
or something with the kind of meaning
that cannot quite be grasped.

Surely there is more to this
than
a simple definition.

A small sign breathes into me,
life
a quiet and odd reminder
after months of (an endless sort of) aching
and
an unquenchable emptiness
meant to gather speed
only slows
as
I regain control.

and now
I see (clearly)

There are cycles gripping every inch
of this place.
One need not be well-versed in
the language of the divine,
a simple 49
can transform reverie into an eerie sensation
of infinite connection.

We all long to thrive
The sensation of
withering,
it gnaws our wretched bones
and we wind up
unconsciously feeding
from one another's energy,
not understanding why
sometimes
we feel so empty
so drained,
stagnant.

My father, he lives in a place
where the internet connection
fades
when the rain rolls in
from the tropics.
The heat today
is unbearably near
to my skin,
the electricity
of water and iodine combined,
static tension packed tight
pushing deeper and
embedding
like the seed of new child.

I've got shoes made of
rotted wood and nails and
my insides are curdling,
curdling.

possession

I watch the water boil
and I swallow the silence,
tuck it beneath swollen tongue
It is all so simplified
this way,
but so heavy in the night.
Books with smoke pages
and so much alone,
so solemn
a commodity
that it nearly kills itself to sell.
I'm not buying.

Shock treatment


An empty ice-less icebox
strange to taste
and a
loneliness one can only
grow to love
on such days
All this
Brittle, stilted, artificial
stuff.
Thunderous silence but
I sense it
beneath your strong,
turned back
And alongside a tumbling stomach.
Fingers which
twitch and tremble
in pockets
of gold
cold to the touch,
the lack thereof
of
of something and
Absolute blind fuming sick.
Humiliation and insulin
trances and
false post-partum depression.
I will pull your tonsils out
as you so plead
but only to trade you the ache
for a surging burn of acid
in my body
These nights, they keep
twisting me into balls and
a small, very small word before bed.

West Texas Wedding Singer


When you've been drinking
your face turns red,
cherry round and warm
And your eyes look bluer then,
your teeth stand at attention
White and endless and
fierce in the light.

This place in these days


This place is sinking quicker
than the oil can leak,
and we're all sitting pretty
until we catch the heat.
Hotter and hotter these days
and I sleep harder and rounder
only wondering how long
it can possibly go on,
washed in the fury
the horror and the sound.
The sound of voices I believe to know,
they echo and rise higher
around//
Me. These desires,
they break wild and
travel far from the places,
these places I go, I go and
grow to know and
cradle
and loathe,
These days.

I know the clouds


An orange glow is lit behind the gray
And no rain comes,
but I smell it in the distance,
screaming
And I still remember the meaning
of every formation and
coloration,
because I learned meteorology
as a child.
I wanted to chase all my fears
like tornadoes
until they spun out of control
and became obsessions,
or tore down the walls
revealing the foundation.
Sometimes
in these slow days
I like to imagine
I'd still succeed at tornado-chasing,
But most times
I just wind up cowering in my bedroom
staring at the clouds
waiting for the rain.

Wax and Wane


She was sometimes more
like a glass teapot
than an old woman,
Heat steaming and building
more and whiter,
So brittle and trembling
beneath the fluorescence
With fingers dried and
cracking,
Her fungus nails like
diseased tree bark,
Dried blood crusting and
gathering tight like
water spots beneath
Those powdery roots,
Crumbling
like the mildew of
ancient herbs.

The age in her bones
Seeps into her ovaries and
Her only companions are
her fat cats,
Wax wheezing by her side
and Wane wailing
at the front door,
Splayed across the cool tiles with
cool eyes squinted and
Begging to be let out into
the dark.

Suitcase Pop-Tarts

I can't remember how old I was

But I still had my plastic pink

Minnie Mouse suitcase

with the silver stars

and broken zipper,

but I threw a handful of pop-tarts

inside- probably the S'mores flavor-

and walked straight out the

front door.

I didn't understand

why my parents

couldn't stop yelling

at one another,

only that I hated the sounds

and surely I felt the angst

of being utterly misunderstood

and attention-starved

as most little girls do-

or at least, in one-child

"families"

when parents

are pre-divorced and

too occupied

to spoil their punkins anymore.

So I left.

I thought running away would set me

free,

that I could start over

somewhere else

and this time I had no intentions

of going to Nana's.

I just wanted to leave.

So I did.

I walked up the street

quickly enough so I could get a

head start

before my mother noticed my absence

When in reality,

my mother knew

from the moment she heard the screen door

clammer shut

what I was up to,

She just let me go

like a good mother would

surely knowing what was coming,

or maybe not.

I made it to the end of my block

and stopped

I stood there

and wondered if she had seen

my empty bed

If she had called my father

at wherever he was staying

those days,

called the police in a terror

crying over her fear.

I imagined her face

her open pores and

freshly plucked eyebrows

and I stood there for a good while,

waiting.

After what seemed an eternity-

four minutes at most-

I sat down in the pale, thin grass

of the lady with big dogs and a

front patio garden bed

and unzipped my suitcase.

The zipper got stuck

and I stuck my little hand inside,

pulled out the pop-tarts

and ate them one by one.

Then I laid down in that

dry and scratchy grass

and fell asleep.

the lost river


She drove her car into the river,
they say
one night she just lost it
got in her car and went,
smudged tears seeping into
her round cheeks like black oil
streaks burning the streets
in the heat of summer and
She was lost in its waters
like ashes of incense
and pictures of life.

She thought of her lost child,
they say
and the nights just crept on
longer and longer
until the only thoughts left were
of the days,
counted days and measured
time like a phantom
that drove her wild
drove her wild like her car
into the Blanco River.

lowercase

drink water
sleep-
for more than four hours
(for once)
run in the fresh air
get my shit together
pack
stretch
make love
swim
yoga
paint
write
READ
for leisure
(extensively)
sweat-
a lot.
these are things
I should be doing
now that I actually
have time to breathe
but instead
I'll drink a beer
and sit here
and remember everything
and be a little afraid
of what, i don't know
maybe of everything.

old


At 4 a.m. I waited for him
in the vacant streets
the wind whipping and
digging holes into my skin
so sharp and quick that
the Styrofoam box
of old food
almost got taken away,
ripped from my tightening
hands in the dark.
The obscure crowing
of some distant machinery
like a rapid moose in pain
made me wonder
where this old town goes
at night
and how sleep deprivation
makes you more keen to
weird happenings
but mostly just a hell of a lot
more paranoid,
more rusty
and creaky like old hinges.
I felt sick
enough to vomit,
I nearly did in fact
but I held back
and only shivered
on the curb
because I knew he
would come for me
Like he always does
because he knows
what its like
to be this unhinged,
because he loves me.

popsicles and eggs


These days I rise
after the bare minimum
of shut-eye
and feed you too much
cheese and eggs and beans
like Mexico.
Even as memory
begins to fade
My favorites bring
me ease
like pina colada popsicles
eaten too fast.
Like all that chamomile
tea and arguments
over nothing,
or taxi drivers whose
favorite game was to
rip us off
and laugh over their
chorizo grease
at how naive Americans are,
how the light-skinned
women bitch too much
drive their men nuts
then run off and fuck
a tourist because
it's spring break and their tits
are perky, they're entitled.
But those days
we got so skinny,
living off the land
and Pedialite popsicles.
Now I find myself
sipping cold coffee
that smells like
old almonds,
writing down my life story
in the blink of an eye,
only a minute or twos worth of
strange photos
and a voice i hate to hear
as my own.
I may not talk much,
or talk about it
but
I have this habit of
lying in public bathrooms
face down on the
cold, smudged tile,
waiting for a miracle
Or maybe just
a gas bubble
to work its way
out of my weary system.

The skeleton with the needle


For years when I was younger
I feared sleeping.
I hated being alone
but loathed
the act of sleeping
even more.
I could only drift off
if my mother scratched my back
for at least ten minutes,
usually more like
twenty.
I would awaken every night
without fail
around midnight,
usually a bit later
and I would flee my sheets
and run for cover,
across the shiny tiles
to my mother's room
on the other end of the empty house.
I always imagined
a towering skeleton
was chasing me,
holding a hair-thin needle
between his
bone phalanges
And with cracking strides
and snapping jaws
hot on my trail
he would hunt my hide
all the way until
Mommy's threshold,
a mere few inches from
overtaking me
before i reached the
safe zone.

Blank Pages


I am so tired of this carcass.
These plain slates and
Broken thoughts,
Scribbled as pounding voices and
Heated like microwaved lasagna,
only to become chewy. Old.

Lately I drink paper instead of tea,
sleep against hormonal imbalances
Instead of a strong back,
White light of computer screen
sheltering me.

My skin is dry and cracking.
I am so needy for nothing.
Hungry on empty,
for a deadpan quiet
Instead of glazed expressions.

Mouths tight and closed
Begrudgingly
Because it's harder to keep the space,
but easier to breathe the stench of silence.

Such a risk, the truth we say we seek out
The confrontation of
Reinvention
like the tremor of some wooden ladder.
Hollow steps toward the sky.

Blank pages of stretched skin
with veins like margins,
Blank pages speak to me.
Louder than fire alarms and
the fear of spreading earthquakes,
Louder because I am a coward.

Into the oven like Sylvia Plath,
Mountains of cookies and
Blackened pans,
Ignoring that wretched howl within.

Death by Bug


I thought my boyfriend was choking to death
I thought his throat was closing in.
He gasped, stopping short mid stride
Halfway between home and the library.
He hacked and spit and gagged, bent at the waist
And still his face turned redder.
I was afraid and patted his back,
Slightly bewildered and
shoulders tensing.
Uncertain of the cause of such purple cheeks,
I saw no evidence for his sudden distress,
Only unexpected asphyxiation.
The culprit was too quick,
Apparently. Or maybe not.
It was a pleasant sort of day and
Thankfully we were merely deterred
in the fresh air,
Not stuck in the parking garage
That bat-shit cave of a place
But my poor boyfriend, nearly retching
Chest heaving thickly and quickly
Could not free himself of his assailant.
An hour before a poetry reading,
His voice was made hoarse
by an invisible corpse
Because a bug flew into his mouth
and died there.
But not like my boyfriend.
He did not die at all.