Month: September 2017

Portrait

I can’t differentiate dreams from the scrapping landscape, the fire escape. The fire escape where daisies sprout from sugar laboratories and small lines of memory. My body is one I don’t know the name of anymore. I love and love then—. Point over where the streetlamps are joyous motions of snapping fingers left out in the rain too long or not long enough. Cull hint and gather your shade palm and moan psalms. This isn’t a pain but a reaching. This isn’t a reaching but a root. Then blood. Then blood. Then shaking and repeating. Too much blood wilting...

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You who never learned a proper exorcism

By the sniveling river you learn yourself: patience. Slowness. Melting candy in the sun, damp of the moss, you. Men will ask you where do you want me to come Socratic-style to catch you, unstudied, unprepared. Spit out the first answer that crawls up your throat and years it takes you to realize—to realize— You think, when does it stop. The petals of your sunflower crumple and sink, unsunned. Receive good news. Spit it into the grounds of your coffee like a country ward against the...

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After Orgasm

my body burns in its secret chamber, a full feeling, like youthful elbows pressing against earth in a late at night passing of the jug, a what-does-it-all-mean round robin. What does it mean, this post-throb throb, sperm swimming to no more eggs, baby-shop closed, heart still open? For hours, I walk bow-legged around these embers, summer sun pounding down, carrying you to the park and back, air hot-petal sweet. Soon, the ashes will cool, a beach fire-pit the waves douse, but where flames once danced, they’ll dance...

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After Leaving the Funeral of My Friend’s Father, I Don’t Know How to Deal With the Sound of Us Crying

On the drive from the chapel to the burial ground we stare out each window like owls. We blast Hallelujah & Purple Rain, shout the lyrics so loud we force ourselves to cry. Most my friends are not poets, so I don’t say how what we’re doing amounts to a kind of elegy, the way Julian drove a hundred miles to be the thirteenth car in the procession, how when Michael died those years ago we met in the dark in Central Park to run loops & loops to cope. There’s nothing else to do but keep close. I...

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The Incident at Metropol

When you decided you wanted a dance You did not know could not have known that I was not there waiting with pouty lips and swaying hips to dance with some yinzer fuck. When you put your hand up my skirt to grab my ass and check for panties, you did not know that my hand would clench around your wrist my fingers strong enough to leave a telling mark of purple mottled with red and blue. When you threatened to tear my new blouse I bought with my first ever bonus check if I didn’t show you my...

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