There isn’t such thing as flat emerald and agreeing to a suicide pact with a falsely familiar stranger is not worth the novelty. We are all children of divorce. Olive, teach me the art of being quaint. Show me how to construct the soundproof walls you’ve built for proper use to love as loudly as we do.
I was walking in the hot, still LA heat
That blows nowhere, so your own thoughts begin to circulate
And you go mad
And upon walking on some particularly rocky asphalt,
I lost my footing
And hit the back of my head and heard a
CRAACK
The first strains of the overture
Intrudes on the calm of normalcy.
Several measures of gentle breeze
Slowly crescendo into true wind.
The key and rhythm suddenly change,
Then revert to the original.
Sister Mary Rose (so young she could’ve been your actual sister)
marched you and her other seventy-two second-grade students
(no teacher aides, no volunteer parents, just the good nun)
eleven blocks west toward the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge
to the palatial Hobart Theater
Whatever anyone
tells you know
it is possible
common in fact
to exist
in one place in
another two time
transience one
location contains
many dancing
Who was the first to try
an olive ripe from the tree,
the paltry flesh over stony seed
so bitter it must be poison?
Who learned the magic
to make it succulent?
Like a willow
branch that must rise
and sway
with the evening
wind, she raises her hand
and runs her fingers
through her hair.
What are these fragile little lightning dreams?
The apparitions of million ideas?
Universal clues disguised as flashing silver fins?
Fine-boned and slick,
fish swim through dark-eyed waters.
Traces—faint or bold, visible, or not—left by scalpel, scandal, scurrilous tongues, the scalding steam from a cast-iron kettle, the scolding tones in a mother’s voice, the screams of a child scared straight.
Like the sky that shines
because of dawn,
I shine
because of a pair of sneakers
wrapped in a package
sent from longing.
They have flown
across several oceans.
The life lived in the body
Was the blood, warm in the veins.
White halos of icy breath,
Frost caught in the sportsground lights.
How you ran and played hard for the team.
Leda carries so many
swanlike things
inside her body.
King-daughter, Sparta’s
Wife, she was made sturdy
for transaction.
Have you ever seen a man,
made into a beast?
Have you ever watched men
change into something else—
Entirely at Desire’s goad,
Did you know any woman
Can transform a man
for some
there is always
the split.
the sea parting like a zipper,
unveiling this vulnerable heart.
it might’ve started at the first sign of trouble but also might’ve never started.
Papa nearly kills a pigeon
with a rock.
That means, your own name
can be used
against you
& that is the way a mother can carry hope
without its burden. Then,
grandma’s fingers
pinch
my flawless cheeks like salt. She drafts
a boat
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my Soul to keep,
and if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my Soul to take.
Mother changed the last words
of my nightly prayer in attempt
to stave me from the futility of
how we all end—in an attempt
to save me from her.
The oncologist instructs you to lie face down
like you’re going to get a massage
except you’re not going to get a massage.
And you think of the thousands of dollars
you spent while hooked on erotic massage
during the final years of your third marriage.
Martha would read the newspaper more than once;
box scores, her favorite, and cartoons that made her laugh.
Small stories with big fame: mothers lifting cars
and the obituaries of the not so named
I dig for shelter
in a homespun
endometrial layer
each new moon
like the first rain
each crimson drop
seething…
He rode in on horseback, his silky mustache
And I was worried for his life. Not that he couldn’t
Care for himself. He had strong legs, especially
The thighs. He was so impressionable among
The men. Christian took an instant liking
In the summer heat, the friction of feet melts the city’s asphalt to sludge. A mammoth wave curls over Broad. Cocoons pigeons and taxis. Engulfs cardboard boxes, condos, and their inhabitants. Folds into itself.
An angry goat fronts
the entrance of the trail –
an unfamiliar gatekeeper.
Payment is an exchange
of glances, a thousand
yards to nowhere.
I walk paths near my home
And think about breaking language
In pieces. I think about the shards
Scattered by will and hunger
Because so much has been lost.
The days of lone children
riding atop handlebars
through cookie-cutter neighborhoods
are memories of yesteryear.
They’re sepia photographs
in an attic-ridden album
blanketed in a thick film of dust.