12/5/09

the chill knots itself in my hair and a wetness from the wild purple night drips onto cracked lips, sliding down my ridiculous scarf and dusky cotton coat. this wind could wake the dead. cats past nine lives hiding under hurricane houses and early nineties scrap metal. the red-head, sugar cane, static television smile predicts southern snow and the city repeats itself while familiar rain grows faint. the hollow branches i can see from my window have been arguing for hours. sometimes i think they're just as indecisive as i am. looking into the mirror, counting lies backwards. ice and pine cones in my throat.

dear, deer

for months i watched
a brittle wick burn
to the basement of
a pint-sized urn
and the last layer of
vanilla wax dilute
swallowed by a flame,
somber and mute.

i could have put it out,
used my last bit of rum.
i could have stole the lake,
harbored in my lungs.
but the drunk deer-eyed flashes
were more vital to the martyr
and the sun forced a dance
atop the salty water.

the twisting of my body,
the acid on flesh
and finally the aftermath,
choking ill breathes.

and oh, how those questions kill.
the rot of the vines-
some dumbstruck frost tree
with camouflage eyes.
and the smell still lingers,
magnetic to your nose.
i sealed all my senses
so that i would not know.

run-on, stay still, and speed up

my long locks gone
wild to the river flooding
the creases of your left palm
hold nothing but melt
like mountaintops in summer
stretch to the solar moons
in sight, out of mind
at dawn and stay quiet
for the crickets at my feet
in bed all knowing
secrets like the one
in white webs you tangle
gold, gold around my bones
swollen eyes every time
orange beams move through
ten hour intervals or
maybe i'm wrong and
cats stay still in a frenzy like
statues of blind men watching
the crowd bleed dew and slip on
nerves inside out
littered by dust from
your teeth grind
dreamy and drowsy octave
wash out the frozen pupils
of foggy noir
opposite magma that
when you create this sleep
skipping breaths for beats
at night you are alive
(and the woods talk back)
.

does it make you anxious?

plum cheeks in the twilight
our late night wire womb
as potent as hollywood
trouble, sweet blood, carbon

your flickering nerves
blooming, decaying
planetary and abstract
the golden fruit.

i hope for quiet places
to make you shiver
entangled in your flaws,
untouchable distance

does it make you anxious?

i’ll take out my wallet
and write you notes on dollar bills
that we’ll spend at the cafe
when we’re restless.

steal that homeless guy, he's cute.

challenging my body
the night has tight ropes
like magnets, like currents

i’ll tape our ribs together
trade our lungs for balloons
and spill my guts across the continent

my teeth can tell the time
better than your watch, the sun
three bottles will do the trick

i pass a smile at heather
never surprised
to see her doing the same

spinning, careless
stars explode beneath translucent skin
balancing on the edge of the milky way

and soon i’ll kiss you
drunk in a church
and bless our tongues as holy

story of the week.

it shouldn't matter to me. i bite down on my ruby lips to make them darker before your knuckles touch the door, theories tacked into my skin like posters of sinners and legends. i formed a small circle with shaky legs on the cluttered carpet, pleading with your foreign eyes to ignore the obvious confession on my face. yes, i knew before you told me. how could i not? i only acted surprised because i was hoping to be. the only thing that surprised me was that i actually cared.

between terrible timing and tasteless wine, i find myself funneling reassurances with weak nights and uninvited mornings. my eyes burn every time i cross the room. there are cigarette burns in my black bag. i fight sleep with new friends and habits, smirking like the half moon above the brick when i remember your hands. my blood stays warm and they say i glow, cheek bones stretching under the covers.

i can't let myself walk your way. i'm shutting my mouth and gluing my feet to the floor. i'm listening to dreadful noise and leaving my fingers at home.

honey sweet nothings, for now.

concentration camps

that night at dinner:
your face was like germany,
sweating the holocaust from every pore.
i pretended not to notice.
i covered my ears, watched my finger nails melt.
naive roots split the table in half.
your grin, the knife.

autumn tangerine

jackie knocked on my door
told me to wash my clothes
or drive them to the dumpster.
so we took a ride
and tore every dress to shreds.

she tells me that my wrists are too small
and starts poking at my veins
mumbling something about astrology-
stars, meteorites.

she says holding your breath is good practice
"if you're going to sell yourself to the paper,
if you're going to be the artist.
my fashion week bullshit cigarettes were made of styrofoam".

she pulls out her check book
and now we're buying thread.
autumn tangerine.
because "there's nothing like making it yourself.
and that man, he's selfish".

night owl

past 1 a.m.

i've become nocturnal. i keep my nose pinned to the crack in the library book. the smell reminds me of third grade and broken teeth. my eyes trace every fragment over and over again, like a finger sobriety test. and since when have i become so brave? blowing smoke off my lips, watching it dance in thin air. deliberately planting sour seeds in my mouth. going anyway because that car will stop for me. plots and plans, experimental everything. i'll keep this up until it wilts, until i get bored again.

my hair looks like a cobweb mess. there is no wind tonight. just cold and spring. downstairs is quiet. i'm alone, tiptoeing across the honey wood floors to the kitchen. i pour a cup of rice "milk", place it on the counter, and stand there for good five minutes. my bones are begging for something. almost 2 a.m. and nothing is getting done. between tiny movements and semi-smiles, i remember that day in my car. we were drenched in sticky southern sweat and you told us you had dreams. forget it. i down the liquid in sixty seconds. i counted because i wanted nothing better to think about. dickinson can't be put off much longer. i'm testing out how close i can get to almost disappointing someone.

since i'm alive.

i'm visiting mexico tonight. i'm taking the old desert roads.

as dusk sneaks up on me, the tires dig deep into the sand. with a cold-sweat fever, i howl back at the frustrated engine. we both need a strong drink.

i stop right past the border, my eyes settle on a bar made of red clay. the door swings open as my feet crunch the ground; a couple arguing in an unfamiliar language. i pass a look at the girl. she's wearing loose curls, a loose dress, and heels made for leaving. her dark features blend into a breath- a second. none of us exist in the next car to pull up.

"i'll take whatever you have". the incoherent bartender purses his lips. i point to the tequila, my bruised hand heavy. the whole word sits still in breakable glass, the tired face i didn't want to see stares back at me. without ever moving my mouth, i take it down, smoothly. the back of my throat welcomes the warmth. i'm a mold of every other getaway artist, sitting in this country like an asshole.

and i sat there, like an asshole, until dawn. walking out, the sun painfully greeted me. i seriously considered lighting the car on fire and never going back home. instead, i pulled the keys out of my pocket and carefully placed them in the trash. without any second guessing, without any careful means, i started up the dusty foreign road. my pale skin absorbs the heat, and i burn. eventually, i stumble across a motel and sleep for twenty four hours. i dreamt of your stupid straight teeth and your cocky stiff hair. i hardly think of you these days.

when i awoke, everything was stuck to my body. the thin sheets, my clothes- all soaked. i had forgotten to turn the fan on. i started a shower but found myself lying in a bath full of grimy water and bits of dirt. like lies and cocaine, i dared myself to drink it.

i make a collect call to my mother, tell her i love her and that i'm fine; i'll return as soon as i've cleared my head. california is next, and then who knows. i'll call you back as soon as i do.

geezam crickets!

5 a.m.
she wakes up, naturally and
starts washing last night's supper
from last decade's china.
oh, that helen.

she sits.
seventy seven years of the same story,
the early news whispers while
her wrinkles rest.

bells ring on cue and
she places her face in the mirror's middle,
painting olay into the reflection.

on the way to church
she gives me two tic-tacs,
the white kind
that make your mouth feel polar.
hearing them sing "gloria"
is the only reason i'm here,
unless you count the donuts.
i would never insult her.

she is a good woman.
the body and blood of christ.

the grocery store;
i am patient and she gives me
a quarter at check-out
for one of those plastic rings
with a pink star and
my day is made.

she misses her husband
and tells me about betsy.
when her bedroom is empty
i sneak glances at his picture.

i listen to her prayers
after she thinks i'm asleep and
maybe everything really does end with
amen.