a woman noctiluca

it seems
that

rocks in wa-
-ter make lights

and

a toss from hand
makes water
come and touch it

half asleep
but
not at me her
droopy eyes
are doing
something right

a toss bright toss
smoke the dark
move across
me

now and how-
-ever even

my
fingers
seasmell ashtaste
my
chest
too close to under canvas
lay me under
canvas
noctiluca
my
thigh
we’ll play in the beehive
burn sunsets to our eyes
brand our breasts with
silicon valley spliffs
and

the ends of
our cigarets will
make lights

the friends of
the fingers are
the chest and
the thigh

she is half asleep but
holding every
step as she

is making light
for the end of
my cigaret

shrhrinks

head shrinks
sucks away pulls
walls doors pillows
skull on skeleton
with lit cigaret
smearing sucks
away smearing
sucks away

why
are you doing
this and stop
asking me that
and can i bring
you down into
the hole i need
help digging i
need help
digging the h-
-ole

head
shrinks sucks
pulls away wa-
-lking wont help
and i cant runnn
and nothings m-
-y fault and no-
things my faul-
-t

 

I here her voyce when there is nothing left to here

Mishigamaa flew by my
head.
But she flew by so slowly,
stretching her forelegs
toward me in surrender,
sending her eyes up to mine,
ass in the air,
wagging that tail,
begging to be seen,
spreading lengthwise
(on skull of skeleton
w/lit cigaret),
swearing, smearing.
Too slow to be tolerated.
Too quick to be understood.
It gave me a
head
ache.
It really did.
So I said,
“Who wants to take a
shot?” and everyone moves.
Everyone gets up.
Everyone moves
into the kitchen
Everyone gets
a glass,
a shot glass,
for their shot.
Everyone.
All three.
It’s a party. Back to was.

So I said,
“Who wants
to
“Who wants to take
“Anybody want
“Who wants to take a shot?”
I said, but I couldn’t tell if anyone heard me.
Mishigamaa was flying by my
head at such a speed
again
too slow and too fast
but loud
like…
just like
if you’ve been to a show
stood in front of a speaker
and felt the way
it moves your hair
jiggles your heart
and most importantly, yeah,
tough to hear other shit.

Everyone moves.
Everyone gets up.
Everyone moves
into the kitchen
They must have heard me.
“Let’s take a

mutha
fuggin
SHOT!”

she says.

Everyone gets
a glass,
a shot glass,
for t heir s hot.

Dogface and Babyneighbor

sunsquinting Dogface
against unconverging
heaven’s beams and
Babyneighbor never ends

never really starts

my head really hurts for
sunsquinting and stress-
-compressing just
tospite me, Babyneighbor

the Sun
looks

so warm
on Her face

thin white sock

screws the nozzle
to the hose for
properangled spray

bending hanging
wires smoking
drinking in the day

hammersounds a
neighbor and i
hammer with a rock

wish i was a
denim pair a
torso and a cock

reddish drapes a-
-cross her body
thin white sock

son is eating
sunny heat for
bodyangled spray

bending huffing
frowning molded
smoking into clay

hands washing

hands gripped hers,
left brands steaming sickness air –
black of bodies
(dead from fever, left to rot
for days in ditches and dairy farms)
being burned

singeing, following –
tripping on roots like staples,
on peeling finger-skin
(bursting red – red of muscle –
shining clean on the obsessed) –
she choked

Pass Do’n, Avshalom

The dark — interrupted by firelight
flickering, meeting trees, stopping —
carries words made of whiskey —
not watered down or followed —
from teeth, tongue, and gums
to the ear — then the mouth, more ears
years later when one head is gray
and the other lies buried
— of one that’s listening.

When I was young, he began —
younger than I am now, he continued —
but no more tonight, he finished.

Until it stops

Smoke rises (above the book of hymns –
calling crying melodic for mercy;
the wide-brimmed flowered hat –
a wedge that holds the door open
that closed would turn pew and pulpit
to church, church to nothing;
the rafters – buckling and aching,
creaking in time with voices climbing
like smoke) until it stops.

Po(op)etry

Can I shock you? I’m asking.
If I open on the
toilet, cigaretburn scar
dimpling hairy pockmarked thigh;
on fucking, sweaty useless tired
against some smoke; beside the bathtub,
praying to yourself like you never prayed to god
but you did and do still.
Or to myself.
Anyway, disposable razorheads
can’t kill you. It’s a waste of time.

 

Feral Cats

Family watch together TV and
peaced-out portions of salisbury
Steaking our guts, gullets,
butts in place,
no shutters required
to shove full your face
and not turn away
No shutters required
to shut up this place
and look for a way
to keep family watch together TV
and peaced-out portions
of salisbury
from steaking me steaking me
staking, mistaking me.
“Don’t go there, it’s a pit you’re liable to be lost in,”
and it’s a pit to which only the lost are liable,
but it’s my pit all the same and I only have
two others. Under my shoulders
like demons they sit. Waiting
for angels all day. Between my
legs, feral cats, they
sit. Waiting for angels all day.

Standing at the Crosswalk

“You know” – six­pack rattle ending,
double­hood covering most of her face,
the wheelchair’s rubber turning over the sidewalk
and carrying her closer to the cars
that wet my jeans with puddle water
and gave us a louder silence to break –
“I don’t like it here anymore.”
Smoke lungs shaking asking mine
(and they obliged) to shake too –
“It was nice for a couple”
– or “a few” – “months,” I said.
Red hand – we stared ahead at it
(or I stared ahead at it)
– telling us we still had to talk.
“No wonder” – wheels turning –
“I drink beer every day.
You have to around here.”

Married, Worried

I found some of her hair on the counter –
she had plucked it from her face
earlier in the day –
and I swept it onto the floor
with the side of my hand.
I thought,
“What if that’s the last time I touch her?”
so I put the hair in a Ziploc bag
and put the Ziploc bag in the cupboard.

I stepped on some of her toenails –
she had clipped them off her feet
earlier in the day –
and I swore because they stabbed me
and because they were gross.
I thought,
“What if that’s the last time I touch her?”
so I put the toenails in a matchbox
and shut the matchbox in a drawer.

I saw bits of her skin on the pillow case –
she had been sunburned
and the skin peeled off –
and I didn’t sweep them off
and I didn’t change the pillow case.
I thought,
“What if this is the last time I touch her?”
as I grabbed them one by one
and hid them in a coin purse in my shoe.

After years and years she died –
she had been living
for quite a long time now –
but I didn’t worry
and I didn’t cry very much.

I opened the cupboard,
I slid out the drawer,
I turned over my shoe.
Inside the baggie,
the matchbox,
the coin purse,
there was enough to put her back together again.