it's time

for the closed-heart surgery

What if this poem isn't about you?

(Well, damnit, it is, but what if it wasn't?)

the thumb gets worn
with too much sucking
(replacement for a mother's tit)

and I am still a thumbsucker
when it comes to you

in my hammock i rock
myself to sleep

because you make me feel invisible
in the nakedest light
not even a shadow left

-come come now
don't be so dramatic-

maybe I would be the woman
to end all girls
(I know I am!)
if I would just leave my skin on

and quit suckling you
as though you will grow it back

I let my face take risks.

Some people don't want the dog
to lick their face...

There's laughter in that tongue,
and butt-licking isn't the worst thing.

What about money?
(now that shit is nasty)

Risk the curl of the tongue,
spontaneous road-trips
and talking to strangers.

Risk living upside down and inside out.

Talk with your mouth full,
swim in a storm,
s-m-i-l-e,
pop your pimples!

Taste all raw meat.

And go ahead, lick my face;
I'm not afraid of your germs.

love song for lovers who can't be in love

raking the yard of dried maple leaves
sun hiding behind the closed gates
opening, we were gone

pulling out weeds by the roots
(the worst weeds grow upside down in us)
dissatisfied with what was planted

dancing alone, together
two helicopter blades
arms barely missing one another

pushing each other on the swing
until we pinch our hands
in the chains

cuddled up with the dirt (after Speed Levitch)

I.
When I really think about it,
I don't know a damn thing.
Yeah, folks have said that shit before,
but I still want to re-write the world
even in its cold banality.

II.
I'd write:
"I am an exhibitionist.
I want to expose myself to the flowers
I want to spoon with the rocks
cuddle up with the dirt
and hump the ocean's leg."

III.
Though the earth knows I'm dumb,
it knows I'm hot too,
and the cacophony of sounds
coming from it,
(a litter of puppies whining,
a homeless man snoring,
a metal fan whirring,
a light buzzing,
tall grass blowing in wind)
makes me feel less alone.

late

in the afternoon
when things begin to calcify

I sit under the ceiling fan, blinking
at the light bulbs
and my eyes harden too
(I can only stare at you for so long)

it took 3 days for me to breathe you out
wear my shirt right side up again

milk pools in the middle of the saucer
laundry aches on the floor

the cat begs to be let out
and I throw him out the door

heat and summer sun linger
like sweat on my neck
like your kiss
then they
disappear

in the face

there are tears
waiting to surface

pores looking for oil

pimples ready to show
their ugly heads

hair about to grow

lines hoping to crease
(they want you to keep living)

and there is a tiny breath
waiting to be released
from a sensual mouth

a funny blog to check out...

I, for some silly reason, always fancied myself to be culturally diverse, "down," etc.
This blog made me feel white as hell...It made me feel incredibly predictable and dull...too funny! We gotta be able to laugh at ourselves.

Originally a book, apparently it is becoming a pop sensation:

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com

bound, or I feel like a horny Emily Dickinson

bound feet and bound wrists,
bound to tell a story of lust
carnal birds flying in wet wind

bound to live a story of love
blue rain falling from brown eyes

beyond this place of yard-gnomes and wooden faces
and planters on the porch and blackberry brambles in the backyard

there are pretty meditations of starry places-
a universe where she can fly around the moon
where there are none of her boundaries
(they are hers alone)

invisible as they are, they still exist
like lines drawn between dark and light

like when the noise stops

she is bound to her bedroom,
her pale green walls, and bookshelves
to her soft blue chair,
her paper lamps
her fences
and those words

that do nothing they do nothing
in her head they do nothing-
on the page they do little else
but run around in the circles of o's

because she won't leave the yard
where the blackberries stain her hands
when she could simply open the gate

the lungs

twisted bronchi, tweaked with smoke
from yesterday's yard fire

(we love to burn things in the yard)
as though there are no neighbors

to smell the stench of yard-trash
and soak it into lungs

alveoli wretched, gory gray,
not pink with the oxygen
of prayer

lungs like hands folded in our
chest cringing from
exposure to the living earth

so we consume, and burn
and lungs grow weary
and tighten

rib cage and sternum,
are protection from chest blows
not from
when
the wind blows