Sunday, April 3, 2011

Before You Come Home

I will look for any reason not to write.
I need to buy belts and shoes online.
There are dishes in the sink.
Television episodes and taxes make
me feel accomplished. I murder
hours at a time trying to avoid poetry.
(Someone already wrote that, that bit
about killing time.)
I use these objects, new jackets and hot
chocolate, to hide behind (someone
already wrote that, too). I'm using enjambment
(everyone does that). It is dark in Chicago
(I'm changing the subject, we do that
when the end is coming) and I've barely begun my life.
(And I'm thinking of a title now, before I
even know where this is going.) (Maybe "Spolier.")
The trains and the waves mimic each other.
(This is about, apparently, the parallel nature
of life, the universe, everything is echoed
and re-coded, nothing is new;
somebody already wrote that.)
When I write "life" what do I mean?
The trains and the waves crash together.
The trains and the waves carry us.
The trains and the waves don't distinguish themselves from me.
The trains and the waves lose devices everyday.
A thousand kisses for you.
We repeat ourselves to death.
I am so thankful for this.


Wednesday, March 24, 2010


Alone in your room I touch
panties drying on the heater,
think about your hands on my
hands on your hips. I open your
medicine cabinet, count bottles
of fingernail polish, look at
rings nestled in the corner
quiet like pebbles. The pictures
of your friends in the kitchen,
all in soft clothes, they smile easy.
Their hair tussled. Many people
love you. This makes me happy.
I want to love all the people
who love you. I want to give them
sweaters. I want to make you
laugh gently in front of them.
I want them to see you look
at me. I want to listen closely.
In your closet is a meteor
of clothes. I lie in your bed
and bite my nails. You'll never
find them. Your clothes meteor
is sexy. It makes your closet
feminine. Turns me on.
I don't like the taste
of your toothpaste. I will
still use it. I drink unfiltered
water from your tap. Lukewarm
tap water reminds me of you,
your apartment, morning sun
on your kitchen table, the
desperate space that enormous
table creates between us, ripening
fruit, an origami fortune
teller, a sculpture of a single wing, the setting
for the first time
I said I love you, to you.
The refrigerator motor kicks
on and the overhead light
flickers. I imagine your parted
lips under my thumb. I remember
sitting at that unforgivable
table, heartbroken, I couldn't reach
you, lips sealed, suffocating under
the burden of your insufferable charm.
Out the windows are hungry squirrels
and honking cars, empty
beer bottles, the cuffs to my
jeans wet and matted.
A siren is moving away
from us. A charm on your
necklace. An easel in an
art store, a running faucet,
a saucer of blueberries, slivered
light under a closed door,
the sound of handwriting, the allowance
of outside objects and inside
objects. a voice. This corner holds
me. This corner is infinite.


Monday, March 8, 2010

This Way Out:

Catastrophe happens to you everyday.
12 dyed eggs roll out of the carton.
Whales can't hear your thoughts.
The rope that tethers you is made out of smoke.
Cleaning is impossible.
Riding a bus is the real blessing.
Evaporation is inevitable.
A ring is a straight line
that won't let go.
Another something disappears
but you don't know what.
You are the conductor of immediate space.
You raise your arm and acknowledge the shadows
but can't face the flame that casts you.


Thursday, February 18, 2010


15 brown Victorian vases
lined up one afternoon
years before we met.
You asked for a motive
and I said,
causality is irrelevant
in poetry, I make
nations out of
hopeful green stuff
tire irons wait
their turn a catastrophe
E.D.'s quick calamity
a photograph of the aftermath
teaches me one way off the wall
you look at the same picture
and see my breath in roses
a wound watch a word
written is not the same word spoken
there are mines everywhere
we have to be careful but we aren't
sure why.

This isn't over.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

After Bobby--

for Robert Dana

A bombed oration tickled me.
Clinked flutes doled out
pointed flirtations.
A contour of life, poetry,
something to shade a body in,
or certainly to illuminate
an otherwise dusty path.
We yowl into it, wait for our own voice.
We chisel ourselves
to death.
We write our way into a shaky grace.
We watch, we listen, we wait in
the corner of a gorgeous room.


Tuesday, February 16, 2010


I answered the phone
experienced deja vu
watched a squirrel chew
felt embarrassed
investigated you
listened to my name being spoken
held my breath
read a paragraph about forgivness
counted church bells
thought about strangers
rested my arm on a comforter
looked out a window
wanted you
saw the air's infinite allowances
asked for tea
braced my body
against no small impulses.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

For You:


Love is nothing on this earth
but a way to translate
my raised fists, drawn arrows
fitful tears, taut trigger
weak stomach, puffed pride
gaunt patience into the hushed
mouth that waits for you.