Month: October 2017

Two Poems

Act I The escalator was sideways But I tried to climb up anyway A man was punctured with bamboo Until he became a porcupine My favorite poet Watches women undress And licks his thumb I’m scared Of the president I’m scared of the dream of acid A jewelry store appears In the crack of my dream An oasis, they say I have to pee, I say Everyone wonders When they’ll win Everyone wonders When they’ll die No one asks To adjust the curtain   [It’s too hot even to fuck] It’s too hot even to fuck. The air conditioner...

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Curious

Once I nearly fell off Riley’s houseboat and drowned. Now, I’m going to get my pants altered. Took the muscle relaxant. It’s nearly noon, but my hands are still near my fingertips. They say I’m adjusted, but not well-adjusted. Sometimes my skin melts off my face. Last night the sky gave me the silent treatment, but if you’re like me, you always keep a bag packed, under the bed. You never know. Driving out on Tunnel Road, usually I don’t miss myself until it’s too late. Riley was like that, too. I loved him like a brother. It happened...

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#tbt (or poem for unfollowing)

In which this luminous companion broadcasts shovelfuls of shit across your barely conscious face. And memories like live munitions parade past open windows, demonstrations by deposed regimes who’ve taken up in new domains where they look like you with straighter teeth. An interrupted armistice of which the day is spent in wake— a trudge across the wilderness that waited past “he’s leaving” whose horizon is “he left” as you ponder the utility of body as weapon against itself, subsisting on superlatives and hired pharmaceuticals. What privilege to witness young love. How common to admit you’re lonely. How grisly to...

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Twenty-Two

I am trying to bear a child before my grandmother dies. No secretly slipped condom, no clenching cum like a bite of water, no. Rather I scour subways for a mate, reach for the crisis of give or keep so that in her life, my second-womb, my ultra-mother, might have a four-generation photo to email New Mexico’s Maureen. So that Mimi, my one-queen, my heart’s graffiti, can die in quiet disaster, spilling from this planet to that, secure in the decision of her progeny. And if, in these formative years of her aging, in these unraveling ones of mine,...

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